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THE SHAPE OF THINGS

A PHILOSOPHY OF DESIGN

The Shape of Things A Philosophy of Design
Vilem Flusser

REAKTION BOOKS

Published by Reaktion Books Ltd

33 Great Sutton Street, London eciv odx, uk

www.reaktionbooks.co.uk
First published in English 1999

English-language translation copyright © Reaktion Books 1999
Reprinted 2009, 2010, 2012

The following essays were taken from Vom Stand der Dinge: ‘Vom Wort Design’,
‘Form und Material’, ‘Der Krieg und der Stand der Dinge’, ‘Von Formen und
Formeln’, ‘Der Blick des Designers’, ‘Die Fabrik’, ‘Der Hebekl schlagt zuriick’,
‘Schirm und Zelt’, ‘Design: Hindernis zum Abraumen von Hindernissen?’,
‘Warum eigentlich klappern die Schreibmaschinen?’, ‘Ethik im Industriedesign?’,
‘Design als Theologie’, ‘Wittgensteins Architektur’, ‘Nackte Wande’, ‘Durchlochert
wie ein Emmentaler’, ‘Schammanen und Maskentanzer’, ‘Das Unterseeboot’.

Copyridght © Carl Hanser Verlag 1993

The following essays were taken from Dinge und Undinge: ‘Das Unding 1’,

‘Das Unding 2’, ‘Teppiche’, ‘Topfe’, ‘Radar’.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publishers.

Translated by Anthony Mathews

Printed in Great Britain by the MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King’s Lynn

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:

Flusser, Vilem, 1920-1991

The shape of things : a philosophy of design

1. Design - Philosophy

I. Title

770.1

ISBN 978 1 86189 055 9

Contents

Introduction, Martin Pawley 7

About the Word Design 17

Form and Material 22

War and the State of Things 30

About Forms and Formulae 35

The Designer’s Way of Seeing 39

The Factory 43

The Lever Strikes Back 51

Shelters, Screens and Tents 55

Design: Obstacle for/to the Removal of Obstacles 58

Why Do Typewriters Go ‘Click’? 62

The Ethics of Industrial Design? 66

Design as Theology 70

Wittgenstein’s Architecture 76

Bare Walls 78

With As Many Holes As a Swiss Cheese 81

The Non-Thing 1 85

The Non-Thing 2 90

Carpets 95

Pots 99

Shamans and Dancers with Masks 104
The Submarine 108
Wheels 117

Biographical Note 123

Introduction

Design is a process that has been variously defined over the
years, a process over which many different interest groups have
claimed hegemony where the design of spacecraft, aircraft,
ships and weapons is concerned, it has always been accepted as
a matter of specialist technical expertise. Where grand build¬
ings are under consideration, Art History rules, with Royal
Commissions, government departments, local-authority offi¬
cers and celebrated architects sharing a duty of agreement
based on value judgements. In the realm of the consumer, the
task of design is constrained by polls, surveys and focus
groups, with advertising reinforcing the result and the power
of the manufacturer supreme. Where clothes, cars, fashion and
furniture are in question, individual genius may appear to be
welcome, but distinctions without differences will abound.

For the media philosopher Vilem Flusser, none of the fore¬
going was of any importance. Flusser understood design in a
different way, seeing it as a fit subject for etymological analysis.
For this reason, the collection of his essays assembled here not
only sheds new light on the importance of design, but also
sheds light from an unusual angle. Flusser’s insights flow not
from professional design experience, but from empirical
observation. Not from the conventional art-historical critique
of form-giving, but from a self-taught grounding in linguistic
philosophy that enabled him to deconstruct the design agenda
and then reconstruct it in another way. For Flusser, as the
reader of these essays will discover, design began not with
science, not with the appreciation of fabricated objects, not
with the vision of their creators, not even with the fabled first
doodle on the back of an envelope. Instead, it began with the
meaning of the words and the ensuing discovery of identity.

Just as evolution by natural selection proceeds in the
natural world, design by semantic selection makes its discur-

sive, apparently wasteful way in Flusser’s world towards the
perfect reconciliation of needs with resources. Through infi¬
nite varieties of form and thought, from Galileo to the Gulf
War, it follows in the footsteps of language, sifting and select¬
ing a profusion of alternative objects and viewpoints in the
world made by humans. Much as the environment sifts and
selects organisms for survival in the natural world, Flusser
found meanings and drew them to the surface. Words and the
languages in which they are packaged became the means
whereby blind, evolutionary-niche-filling design proliferates
and cross-fertilises unpredictable patterns of survival.

Flusser’s world view provides a primer for the number¬
crunching reality of what might be called ‘real design’: a defini¬
tion that illuminates the vital but random and ‘uncreative’
roles of invention and technology-transfer even as it dimin¬
ishes the false claims made for individual genius as well as the
distortions encouraged by national chauvinism. For example,
in his question-marked essay‘The Ethics of Industrial
Design?’, Flusser not only explains apparently arbitrary
connections like the link between the cavity magnetron valve
and the microwave oven, or that between the Polynesian
wooden fishing canoe and the development of polymers and
composites; or the relevance of bone china to the production
of chocolate, of mathematics to computers, of computers to
genealogy, and of genealogy to ecology - he also illuminates
the crisis of moral responsibility that occurs because of these
connections. He posits the state of ultimate irresponsibility
that arises when the work of several anonymous designers
combines to produce a ‘post-industrial helicopter-pilot
complex’ of human-and-helmet that allows the pilot to aim
and fire his guns simply by looking at his target and blinking.

Flusser’s essays explain and illustrate this inextricable inter¬
connectedness of technology and responsibility by tracing
genetic design chains back into the past. Into old worlds of
hardship, self-sacrifice, resourcelessness, survival and ultimate

defeat. For he understood that real design is a language whose
meaning can best be deciphered under extreme conditions -
want of knowledge, of resources, of materials, of time - want
of everything except language and the historically and
geographically varied descriptors it provides. Products and
systems created in such circumstances, he believed, truly held
within themselves the most extreme state of efficiency for the
task of species survival. They represented design on the edge of
feasibility, where nothing could be done but somehow the
possibility of something emerging through human under¬
standing remained until the very end. That is where Flusser’s
vision of the ultimate role of design is to be found: in a
crowded and polluted world where people will live in virtual
reality most of the time and don special ‘diving suits’ to visit
the real world.

If it is the surprising language and the complete absence of
the usual list of famous designer names that gives Vilem
Flusser’s essays on design their freshness and continuing rel¬
evance, this is because they are simple without being simplis¬
tic. They have a directness that clears the ground. There is no
overarching narrative, no fragmentation; every essay is
complete. There is no naive faith in science, no hero-worship,
no corporate ‘we’, none of the underwriting of the myth of
individual genius that so often passes for understanding where
writers on design are concerned. As well as finding no parade
of famous names, the reader will find no contenders put
forward for uncritical admiration. Nor, indeed, will he or she
be presented with pages of expensive photography (hinting as
it invariably does that a deal has been done on the basis of a
total suspension of critical faculties).

On the contrary. Flusser’s liberated viewpoint permitted
him a tremendous freedom of expression, a freedom, one
might say, without equal in contemporary design literature. As
a result, his writing became by turns pyrotechnic and wither-
ingly critical, as well as pungent with meaning. All expressed in

short, stabbing essays replete with dazzling generalizations
which turn out to be supported by an impregnable structure
of argument drawn from reality itself.

Vilem Flusser the philosopher was born in Prague on 12
May 1920 into a family of Jewish intellectuals. His father,

Gustav Flusser, was a Professor of Mathematics at Charles
University; his mother was an artist. But despite his secure
bourgeois background, his relations with his native country
were destined to be short and tragic. The Republic of
Czechoslovakia into which he was born had only recently been
formed from two breakaway provinces of Austria-Hungary
and had only nineteen years of life ahead of it. Flusser grew up
in this fragile creation of the Treaty of Versailles and, against
all probability, was destined to die in 1991 in its newly liberated
Cold War successor, for although he left Prague at the age of
nineteen and did not return until he was seventy-one, he died
in a car crash on the outskirts of the city.

The Czechoslovakia of Flusser’s childhood and youth was
one of Europe’s most cosmopolitan and avant-garde centres of
art, industry and design. Occupying the industrial heartland of
the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, it inherited - along with a
population of only 14 million - an enormous excess of raw
materials and an industrial capacity sufficient for a population
of 60 million or more. From its inception, the new republic
was an industrial producer and exporter, and its exports
opened it up to world influences. Modern design flourished in
the arts and in architecture, in the aircraft and motor indus¬
tries and in the manufacture of military equipment. By the
mid-i930s, Prague was boasting the most advanced collection
of modern buildings in the world. Outside the capital, the
model industrial city of Zlin was planned by the Swiss archi¬
tect Le Corbusier as the first and only city to be three-dimen-
sionally modular. In the same way, the Bata factory city of
Brno boasted the first and only building to be equipped with
mobile offices in lifts.

Whether Flusser’s interest in design was triggered by this
uniquely modern heritage is impossible to say. In any case, the
window of opportunity for the small country was already clos¬
ing. Czech independence was threatened as soon as Germany
and Austria reunited in defiance of the Treaty of Versailles;
within a year, Hitler had annexed the formerly Prussian
Sudetenland and incorporated the two provinces of Bohemia
and Moravia into the Reich. This last event, the second of no
less than five radical restructurings the state of Czechoslovakia
was to undergo in the twentieth century, placed the young
Flusser in mortal danger.

In 1939, in his first year as a student of philosophy at his
fathers university, Flusser narrowly escaped the appalling fate
of most of the Jews trapped inside the frontiers of Hitler’s
Germany. Thanks to the determination and family resources
of a fellow student, Edith Barth, daughter of a wealthy indus¬
trialist, he was extricated from the country after the outbreak
of World War II, managing to join Barth in England. From
there, the pair made their way to Brazil, where the Barth family
had industrial interests. Vilem and Edith were married in Rio
de Janeiro in 1941 and proceeded to raise three children.

Flusser was to remain in South America for 30 years. His good
fortune can be measured by the fact that he was the sole
member of his family to escape the Holocaust.

Flusser’s career as a philosopher began in Sao Paulo, where
his family resettled from Rio in the 1940s. There he worked as
the manager of a transformer factory, learned Portuguese,
studied philosophy and wrote copiously. His first publication
on the philosophy of language appeared in 1957. Later he aban¬
doned industry and taught humanities to engineering
students at the university. In 1963, he published his first book,
Lingua e Realidade (Language and Reality); in 1964, he became
co-editor of the learned Revista Brasileira de Filosofia
(Brazilian Review of Philosophy). In the following year, he
published an influential article in this review entitled ‘The

Crisis of Science’, a paper that attracted critical attention. In it,
Flusser maintained that the uncertainty of pure science had
been masked throughout the modern period by a Romantic
vulgarization of the enormous pragmatic success of applied
science. The contemporary crisis to which his title refers was
largely due to the uncertainty that was surfacing at long last.
‘Science’ he wrote in 1964, ‘has become automated and has
transformed scientists into its own tools.’

This idea of productive processes so optimized by special¬
ized tools, equipment and protocols that their operators
become their real products was to recur in Flusser’s writing, as
it does in this collection. The essay included here under the
title ‘The Factory’, for example, expresses this idea, although it
was published many years later in Germany. With a character¬
istic Flusserian flourish, it begins with the proposition that ‘the
science, politics, art and religion of [any society] can be traced
back to its factory organization and way of manufacturing
pots.’ This is followed by an even more extreme restatement,
that ‘human history is the history of manufacturing and every¬
thing else is mere footnotes’, or - as the same thought appears
elsewhere in these essays - ‘All revolutions are technical revo¬
lutions.’ In ‘The Factory’, Flusser dismantles this assertion and
then reassembles it. He does this by defining the successive
phases of the history of manufacturing - ‘hands, tools,
machines, robots’ - and then moves on to show that, as they
have evolved from one stage to the next, factories have not
become places where goods are produced so much as places
where new kinds of human beings are produced as well: ‘First
hand-man, then tool-man, then machine-man, and finally
robot-man’. Flusser goes on to discuss the human implications
of the ‘dematerialization’ of the robot factory and to describe
its resultant post-historical fusion of homo sapiens sapiens with
homo faber. Finally, like the composer of an adept piece of
chamber music, he closes on a reprise, completing the loop of
his argument by proving that manufacturing is congruent

with learning, since both processes are based on ‘acquiring,
producing and passing on information’. Thus he proves that
human history can be seen as ‘a history of manufacturing and
everything else is mere footnotes’.

Although he published books in Brazil during the 1960s -
Lingua e Realidade and the first version of his best-known
work, Filosofia da Caixa Preta (Towards a Philosophy of
Photography) (later to appear in a successful German edition
and ultimately to be translated into seventeen languages, inex¬
plicably excluding English), Flusser’s principal achievement
during his creative years in Sao Paulo was the development of
the concept of philosophical science fiction and the invention
of its accompanying literary form, the short philosophical
essay, a genre that he swiftly made his own.

By the time he had reached his middle years, Flusser had
become a man of fixed and somewhat eccentric habits.
According to Brazilian friends, he was - and determinedly
remained - domestically incapable and could not (or would
not) drive. He refused to buy books, although he accepted
them as gifts, and in his own writings he seldom if ever
acknowledged other authors. Inflexible in his daily routines,
he wrote in the mornings and socialized in the afternoons. His
writing method evolved in the era of the portable manual
typewriter, and he never changed it thereafter, despite the
explosion of information technology through which he was to
live and about which he was to philosophize. Daily he placed a
light-weight top sheet and single carbon copy in his portable
with its pica typeface. He rejected electric and electronic type¬
writers because he objected to the noises they made, and he
rejected the offer of a word processor out of hand - despite
once being given one as a present by his son Miguel, today
the owner of a software company in Sao Paulo. Flusser
defended his preference for manual over automatic machines
by claiming that the silence between keystrokes coupled with
the physical act of returning the carriage left to right, left to

right, punctuated his thoughts at the correct intervals for
composition.

The length of Flusser’s essays and his drastic editing proce¬
dures were similarly ritualized. Because he invariably typed
single-spaced copy with narrow margins and seldom used
more than four sheets of paper at a sitting, he tended to
produce dense documents with up to 400 words per page.
These were inherently difficult to edit in the traditional
manner. Although on surviving manuscripts there is some
evidence of deletion and revision, in general Flusser dealt with
the problem of editing by rereading his essays on completion
and, if he did not like them, scrapping the originals and writ¬
ing them again from the beginning, sometimes in a different
language. Fluent in Czech, German, French, English and
Portuguese, and with knowledge of many other languages, he
used their various etymologies as tools for changing or elabo¬
rating meaning, as well as breaking through blocks in his flow
of words.

Of the fortunes of his short philosophical essays, we know
only that most remained unpublished until the 1970s, when
for a few months he wrote regular columns in two separate
Brazilian newspapers, the Estado de Sao Paulo and the Folha de
Sao Paulo , in the latter of which his contributions were entitled
‘Posto Zero’ (‘taking no position’) - a prudent stance during
the years of the military dictatorship in Brazil. These news¬
paper pieces were ephemeral and have never been translated
from the Portuguese, although they have been collected and
published in Brazil. They are said to be reminiscent of his
aggressive debating style and to reflect his sense of humour.
There can be no doubt that they influenced and added pace
and flow to the articles dealing with the arts, media and
communications that he soon began contributing to
American, French and German art and cultural magazines.
During the late 1970s and 1980s, many of his best essays were
written for the American magazines Artforum, Main Currents,

Leonardo and Art International. For the French, he contributed
to Artitudes, Theatre Public and Communication et langages.
Essays written in German appeared in European Photography,
Design Report, Arch + and a large number of newspapers and
photographic magazines.

Today approximately 70 philosophical essays written in
English survive in the Vilem Flusser archive in Germany.
Probably another hundred, written in Portuguese, survive in
Brazil, together with another 70 or so written in German
towards the end of his life, from which the essays printed here
were taken. Within this total output, which spans the period
from the mid-1960s until Flusser’s death and which excludes
all his full-length books, there is inevitably some considerable
duplication as a result of the coexistence of successive versions
of the same text, together with differing versions of one text
rewritten in another language. There are undoubtedly suffi¬
cient unpublished essays to fill a series of books.

In 1972, Vilem and Edith Flusser returned to Europe, at first
to Merano in Italy and then to Robion in the south of France,
where Flusser met and began his long-standing collaboration
with the artist Louis Bee and where he adopted the peripatetic
life of a writer and lecturer. He gave lectures and seminars at
the Art Academy of Aix-en-Provence, the Ecole Nationale
Superieure de la Photographic in Arles and the University of
Provence. But this was just the beginning.

Flusser’s first appearance at a German cultural event took
place in 1981 at the Diisseldorf Photography Symposium. Two
years later, by which time Filosofia da Caixa Preta had been
published in Germany to great critical acclaim, Flusser had
become a popular speaker at scientific and artistic conferences
concerned with the new media in Europe and the United
States. It was during this time, reflecting on the extraordinary
story of Flusser’s life, that someone asked him if he considered
himself an international man. ‘Inter’, he replied, ‘but not
national.’ Flusser’s last engagement before his ill-fated visit to

Prague in November 1991 took the form of a series of seminars
on communications at the Ruhr University of Bochum, of
which a complete video record exists.

Perhaps the oddest and most revealing essay in this collec¬
tion on design is entitled ‘The Submarine’. It exemplifies the
writing style of Flusser’s later German period - during which
time he occupied himself with wide-ranging and topical ques¬
tions - but also recalls the philosophical science fiction of his
Brazilian days. In it, he appears to be recounting the story of a
monstrous attempt to destroy humanity, but in reality he is
composing a parable for the coming transformation of materi¬
alistic civilization. He begins by describing a global state of
frenzied activity in which everything has ceased to work and
‘the eventual destruction of the world of things was only a
question of time ... years rather than decades.’ Then he
recounts the response of 17 prominent experts, professional
men and women who misappropriate public funds to build a
gigantic submarine in an abandoned shipyard in Norway, as a
kind of inverted Noah’s Ark. Together they constitute a kind of
‘collective super-brain’ which they base at the bottom of the
Pacific Ocean, whence they threaten everyone in the world
with destruction unless they pledge allegiance to a number of
ruling principles. At first, the submariners have some success,
but soon the altruistic principles they propound unite human¬
ity against them. The giant submarine and its occupants are
destroyed. This is Flusser’s metaphor for the revolt of belief
against modernity and the return of reality to a world of intol¬
erable abstraction.

‘I tried all my life to find myself in order to commit myself,’
Vilem Flusser once wrote in an autobiographical essay. ‘But I
did not even begin to live. I spent my life being available, and I
am still available.’ In the form of a rich tapestry of writings, of
which this collection is the first to be published in English, the
voice silenced forever on the morning of 27 November 1991 is
still available.

About the Word Design

In English, the word design is both a noun and a verb (which
tells one a lot about the nature of the English language). As a
noun, it means - among other things - ‘intention’, ‘plan’,
‘intent’, ‘aim’, ‘scheme’, ‘plot’, ‘motif’, ‘basic structure’, all these
(and other meanings) being connected with ‘cunning’ and
‘deception’. As a verb (‘to design’), meanings include ‘to
concoct something’, ‘to simulate’, ‘to draft’, ‘to sketch’, ‘to fash¬
ion’, ‘to have designs on something’. The word is derived from
the Latin signum, meaning ‘sign’, and shares the same ancient
root. Thus, etymologically, design means ‘de-sign’. This raises
the question: How has the word design come to achieve its
present-day significance throughout the world? This question
is not a historical one, in the sense of sending one off to exam¬
ine texts for evidence of when and where the word came to be
established in its present-day meaning. It is a semantic ques¬
tion, in the sense of causing one to consider precisely why this
word has such significance attached to it in contemporary
discourse about culture.

The word occurs in contexts associated with cunning and
deceit. A designer is a cunning plotter laying his traps. Falling
into the same category are other very significant words: in
particular, mechanics and machine. The Greek mechos means a
device designed to deceive - i.e. a trap - and the Trojan Horse
is one example of this. Ulysses is called polymechanikos, which
schoolchildren translate as ‘the crafty one’. The word mechos
itself derives from the ancient MAGH, which we recognize in
the German Macht and mogen, the English ‘might’ and ‘may’.
Consequently, a machine is a device designed to deceive; a
lever, for example, cheats gravity, and ‘mechanics’ is the trick
of fooling heavy bodies.

Another word used in the same context is ‘technology’. The
Greek techne means ‘art’ and is related to tekton, a ‘carpenter’.

The basic idea here is that wood (hyle in Greek) is a shapeless
material to which the artist, the technician, gives form, thereby
causing the form to appear in the first place. Plato’s basic
objection to art and technology was that they betray and
distort theoretically intelligible forms (‘Ideas’) when they
transfer these into the material world. For him, artists and
technicians were traitors to Ideas and tricksters because they
cunningly seduced people into perceiving distorted ideas.

The Latin equivalent of the Greek techne is ars , which in fact
suggests a metaphor similar to the English rogue’s ‘sleight of
hand’. The diminutive of ars is articulum - i.e. little art - and
indicates that something is turned around the hand (as in the
French tour de main). Hence ars means something like ‘agility’
or the ‘ability to turn something to one’s advantage’, and
artifex- i.e. ‘artist’ - means a ‘trickster’ above all. That the
original artist was a conjurer can be seen from words such as
‘artifice’, ‘artificial’ and even ‘artillery’. In German, an artist is of
course one who is ‘able to do something’, the German word for
art, Kunst, being the noun from konnen, ‘to be able’ or ‘can’, but
there again the word for ‘artificial’, gekunstelt, comes from the
same root (as does the English‘cunning’).

Such considerations in themselves constitute a sufficient
explanation of why the word design occupies the position it
does in contemporary discourse. The words design, machine,
technology, ars and art are closely related to one another, one
term being unthinkable without the others, and they all derive
from the same existential view of the world. However, this
internal connection has been denied for centuries (at least
since the Renaissance). Modern bourgeois culture made a
sharp division between the world of the arts and that of tech¬
nology and machines; hence culture was split into two mutu¬
ally exclusive branches: one scientific, quantifiable and ‘hard’,
the other aesthetic, evaluative and ‘soft’. This unfortunate split
started to become irreversible towards the end of the nine¬
teenth century. In the gap, the word design formed a bridge

between the two. It could do this since it is an expression of the
internal connection between art and technology. Hence in
contemporary life, design more or less indicates the site where
art and technology (along with their respective evaluative and
scientific ways of thinking) come together as equals, making a
new form of culture possible.

Although this is a good explanation, it is not satisfactory on
its own. After all, what links the terms mentioned above is that
they all have connotations of (among other things) deception
and trickery. The new form of culture which Design was to
make possible would be a culture that was aware of the fact
that it was deceptive. So the question is: Who and what are we
deceiving when we become involved with culture (with art,
with technology - in short, with Design)? To take one exam¬
ple: The lever is a simple machine. Its design copies the human
arm; it is an artificial arm. Its technology is probably as old as
the species homo sapiens, perhaps even older. And this
machine, this design, this art, this technology is intended to
cheat gravity, to fool the laws of nature and, by means of
deception, to escape our natural circumstances through the
strategic exploitation of a law of nature. By means of the lever
- despite our body weight - we ought to be able to raise
ourselves up to touch the stars if we have to, and - thanks to
the lever - if we are given the leverage, we might be able to
lever the world out of its orbit. This is the design that is the
basis of all culture: to deceive nature by means of technology,
to replace what is natural with what is artificial and build a
machine out of which there comes a god who is ourselves. In
short: The design behind all culture has to be deceptive
(artful?) enough to turn mere mammals conditioned by
nature into free artists.

This is a great explanation, is it not? The word design has
come to occupy the position it has in contemporary discourse
through our awareness that being a human being is a design
against nature. Unfortunately, this explanation will not satisfy

us. If in fact design increasingly becomes the centre of atten¬
tion, with the question of Design replacing that of the Idea, we
will find ourselves on uncertain ground. To take one example:
Plastic pens are getting cheaper and cheaper and tend to be
given away for nothing. The material they are made of has
practically no value, and work (according to Marx, the source
of all value) is accomplished thanks to smart technology by
fully automatic machines. The only thing that gives plastic
pens any value is their design, which is the reason that they
write. This design represents a coming together of great ideas,
which - being derived from art and science - have cross-fertil¬
ized and creatively complemented one another. Yet this is a
design we don’t even notice, so such pens tend to be given
away free - as advertising, for example. The great ideas behind
them are treated with the same contempt as the material and
work behind them.

How can we explain this devaluation of all values? By the
fact that the word design makes us aware that all culture is
trickery, that we are tricksters tricked, and that any involve¬
ment with culture is the same thing as self-deception. True,
once the barrier between art and technology had been broken
down, a new perspective opened up within which one could
create more and more perfect designs, escape one’s circum¬
stances more and more, live more and more artistically (beau¬
tifully). But the price we pay for this is the loss of truth and
authenticity. In fact, the lever is about to lever all that is true
and authentic out of our orbit and replace it mechanically
with perfectly designed artefacts. And so all these artefacts
become as valuable as plastic pens, become disposable gadgets.
This becomes clear when we die, if not before. Because despite
all the technological and artistic arrangements we make
(despite hospital architecture and death-bed design), we do
die, just as other mammals die. The word design has managed
to retain its key position in everyday discourse because we are
starting (perhaps rightly) to lose faith in art and technology as

sources of value. Because we are starting to wise up to the
design behind them.

This is a sobering explanation. But it is also an unavoidable
one. A confession is called for here. This essay has had a
specific design in mind: It set out to expose the cunning and
deceptive aspects of the word design. This it did because they
are normally concealed. If it had pursued another design, it
might, for example, have insisted on the fact that ‘design’ is
related to ‘sign’: a sign of the times, a sign of things to come, a
sign of membership. In that case, it would have given a differ¬
ent, but equally plausible, explanation of the word’s contem¬
porary situation. That’s the answer then: Everything depends
on Design.

Form and Material

A lot of nonsense has been talked about the word immaterial.
But when people start to speak of‘immaterial culture’, such
nonsense can no longer be tolerated. This essay aspires to clear
away the distorted concept of the ‘immaterial’.

The word materia is the result of the Romans’ attempt to
translate the Greek term hyle into Latin. Hyle originally meant
‘wood’, and the fact that the word materia must have meant
something similar is still suggested by the Spanish word
madera. When, however, the Greek philosophers took up the
word hyle, they were thinking not of wood in general but of
the particular wood stored in carpenters’ workshops. In fact,
what they were concerned with was finding a word that could
express the opposite of the term form (Greek morphe). Thus
hyle means something amorphous. The basic idea here is this:
The world of phenomena that we perceive with our senses is
an amorphous stew behind which are concealed eternal,
unchanging forms which we can perceive by means of the
supersensory perspective of theory. The amorphous stew of
phenomena (the ‘material world’) is an illusion, and reality,
which can be discovered by means of theory, consists of the
forms concealed behind this illusion (the ‘formal world’).
Discovered, indeed, in such a way that one recognizes how the
amorphous phenomena flow into forms, occupy them in
order to flow out into the amorphous once more.

We get closer to this opposition hyle/morphe or ‘matter’/
‘form’ if we translate the word matter as ‘stuff’. The word stuff
is both a noun and a verb (‘to stuff’). The material world is
that which is stuffed into forms; it gives them a filling. This is
much more plausible than the image of wood being cut into
forms. For it demonstrates that the world of stuff only comes
about when it is stuffed into something. The French word
for filling is farce, this makes it possible to claim that, from a

theoretical perspective, everything material in the world,
everything made up of stuff, is a farce. This theoretical
perspective, in the course of the development of science,
entered into a dialectical relationship with the sensory
perspective (‘observation - theory - experiment’), and this can
be seen as a stumbling-block to theory. It could even lead to
the sort of materialism for which matter (stuff) is reality.
Nowadays, however, under pressure from information tech¬
nology, we are returning to the original concept of‘matter’ as a
temporary filling of eternal forms.

For reasons that would go way beyond the scope of this
essay, there grew up, independently of the philosophical
concept of matter, the opposition ‘matter-spirit’. The original
conception here was that solid bodies could be turned into
liquid and liquid bodies into gas, in so doing escaping the field
of vision. Thus, for example, breath (Greek pneuma, Latin
spiritus) can be seen as a turning of the solid human body into
gas. The transformation from solid to gas (from body to spirit)
can be observed in one’s breath in cold weather.

In modern science, the concept of changing states of aggre¬
gation (solid > liquid > gas and back again) has given rise to a
different world-view, according to which, roughly speaking,
this change takes place between two horizons. On the one
horizon (the point of absolute zero), everything whatsoever is
solid (material), and on the other horizon (at the speed of
light), everything whatsoever is more than gaseous (high
energy). (One is reminded that ‘gas’ and ‘chaos’ are the same
word.) The ‘matter-energy’ opposition that arises here makes
one think of spiritualism: One can transform matter into
energy (fission) and energy into matter (fusion) (this is
expressed in Einstein’s formula). According to the world-view
of modern science, everything is energy - i.e. the possibility of
chance, improbable agglomeration, of the formation of
matter. In such a world-view, ‘matter’ equals temporary islands
consisting of agglomerations (warps) in high-energy fields of

possibility which intersect with one another. Hence all the
fashionable nonsense talked nowadays about ‘immaterial
culture’. What is meant by this is a culture in which informa¬
tion is entered into the electromagnetic field and transmitted
there. What is nonsense is not just the misuse of the term
immaterial (instead of high-energy ) but also the uninformed
use of the term inform.

To return to the original opposition ‘matter-form’ - i.e.
‘content-container’. The basic idea is this: When I see some¬
thing, a table for example, I see wood in the form of a table. It
is true that the table is being hard as I am seeing it (I bump
into it), but I know that this state is transitory (it will be burnt
and decompose into amorphous ash). But the table-form is
eternal, since I can imagine it anywhere and at any time
(see it in my mind’s theoretical eye). Hence the form of the
table is real, and the content of the table (the wood) is only
apparent. This illustrates what carpenters do: They take the
form of a table (the ‘idea’ of a table) and impose it upon an
amorphous piece of wood. The tragedy here is that in so
doing they not only in-form the wood (impose the table form
on it) but also deform the idea of the table (distort it in the
wood). The tragedy is therefore that it is impossible to make
an ideal table.

This all sounds very archaic, but it is in fact so up-to-date
that it deserves to be called a ‘burning issue’. Take a simple, and
hopefully plausible, example: Heavy bodies appear to roll
around without following any rules, but in reality they behave
according to the formula of free fall. The movement perceived
by the senses (that which is material about the bodies) is
apparent, and the theoretically intelligible formula (that which
is formal about the bodies) is real. And this formula, this form,
is without time and space, unalterably eternal. The formula of
free fall is a mathematical equation, and equations are without
time and space. There is no point in trying to ask whether T +

1 = 2’ is also true at 4:00 p.m. in Vladivostok. There is just as

little point, however, in saying of the formula that it is ‘imma¬
terial’. It is the How of the material, and the material is the
What of the form. To put it another way: The information ‘free
fall’ has a content (body) and a form (a mathematical
formula). This is approximately how it would have been put in
the Baroque period.

But the question remains: How did Galileo come up with
this idea? Did he discover it theoretically behind phenomena
(Platonic interpretation), did he invent it as a means of orien¬
tation amidst bodies, or did he spend a lot of time playing
around with bodies and ideas until he worked out the idea of
free fall? The answer to this question will decide whether the
edifice of science and art stands or falls, this crystal palace
composed of algorithms and theorems that we call Western
culture. To clarify this problem, to illustrate the question in
formal terms, what follows is a further example from the time
of Galileo.

It is all a question of the relation between heaven and earth.
If the heavens, with the moon, the sun, the planets and the
fixed stars, revolve around the earth (as they appear to do),
then the heavens revolve in very complicated epicyclical orbits,
some of which must be in reverse. If the sun is at the centre,
and the earth becomes a heavenly body, then the orbits run in
relatively simple elliptical forms. The Baroque answer to this
question was that in reality, the sun was at the centre and the
ellipses were real forms; the epicyclical Ptolemaic forms were
figures of speech, fictions, forms invented to maintain appear¬
ances (to save phenomena). Today our thinking is more
formal than it was at that time, and our answer goes like this:
Ellipses are more convenient forms than epicycles, and there¬
fore they are to be preferred. But ellipses are less convenient
than circles, and circles unfortunately cannot be applied here.
It is therefore no longer a question of what is real but of what
is convenient, and it turns out that one can’t simply apply
convenient forms to phenomena (in this case circles), only the

most convenient of those that fit them. In short: Forms are
neither discoveries nor inventions, neither Platonic Ideas nor
fictions, but containers cobbled together for phenomena
(‘models’). And theoretical science is neither ‘true’ nor ‘ficti¬
tious’ but ‘formal’ (model-designing).

If‘form’ is the opposite of‘matter’, then no design exists
that could be called ‘material’: It is always in-forming. And if
form is the ‘How’ of matter, and‘matter’ the ‘What’ of form,
then design is one of the methods of giving form to matter
and making it appear as it does and not like something else.
Design, like all cultural expressions, illustrates that matter
does not appear (is not apparent) except in so far as one
in-forms it, and that, once in-formed, it starts to appear
(become a phenomenon). Thus matter in design, as every¬
where in culture, is the way in which forms appear.

Nevertheless, to speak of design being between the
material and the ‘immaterial’ is not completely beside the
point. There are in fact two different ways of seeing and think¬
ing: the material and the formal. The Baroque period was
material: The sun is really at the centre, and stones really fall
according to a formula. (It was material and, for precisely
that reason, not materialistic.) Our period is more formal:

The sun at the centre and the equation of free fall are practical
forms. (This is formal, and precisely for that reason not
unmaterialistic.) These two ways of seeing and thinking
result in two different ways of designing. The material one
results in representations (for example, animal paintings on
cave walls). The formal one results in models (for example,
designs for irrigation canals on Mesopotamian tablets). The
first way of seeing emphasizes the apparent in a form; the
second way emphasizes the form in the appearance. Thus
the history of painting, for example, can be seen as a process in
the course of which material seeing (with some set-backs of
course) takes on a leading role. An illustration of this is the
following:

An important step in the direction of formalization was the
introduction of perspective. For the first time, it was a
conscious question of filling preconceived forms with material,
of making phenomena appear in particular forms. A further
step was made by Cezanne, for example, who managed to
impose two or three forms at the same time onto one material
(for example, to ‘show’ an apple from several perspectives).

This was carried to the extreme by Cubism: It was a matter of
displaying preconceived geometrical (mutually intersecting)
forms, in the case of which the material only served to make
forms appear. One can therefore say of this sort of painting
that, moving between content and container, between material
and form, between the material and the formal aspect of
phenomena, it approaches that which is referred to, incorrectly,
as the ‘immaterial’.

All this, however, is just a lead-up to the production of so-
called ‘artificial images’. These make the question of the rela¬
tion between material and form a ‘burning issue’ for the first
time today. What is at issue is the technical equipment allow¬
ing one to display algorithms (mathematical formulae) as
colour (and possibly moving) images on screens. This is differ¬
ent from designing canals on Mesopotamian tablets, different
from designing cubes and cones in Cubist paintings, even
different from designing plausible aeroplanes by the use of
calculations. Because in the first case, it is a matter of design¬
ing forms for materials in which they will be encapsulated in
the future (the form of canals, of Demoiselles d’Avignon, of
Mirage jets), and in the second case it is a matter of ‘pure’
Platonic forms. The fractal equations, for example, that are
displayed on screens as Mandelbrot’s little gingerbread men
lack material (even if they can be filled with material such as
mountain ranges, storm-clouds or snowflakes). Such artificial
images can be referred to (mistakenly) as ‘immaterial’, not
because they show up in the electromagnetic field but because
they display material-free, empty forms.

The ‘burning issue’ is therefore the fact that in the past
(since the time of Plato and even earlier), it was a matter of
forming the material to hand to make it appear, but now what
we have is a flood of forms pouring out of our theoretical
perspective and our technical equipment, and this flood we fill
with material so as to ‘materialize’ the forms. In the past, it was
a matter of giving formal order to the apparent world of mate¬
rial, but now it is a question of making a world appear that is
largely encoded in figures, a world of forms that are multiply¬
ing uncontrollably. In the past, it was a matter of formalizing a
world taken for granted, but now it is a matter of realizing the
forms designed to produce alternative worlds. That means an
‘immaterial culture’, though it should actually be called a
‘materializing culture’.

What is at issue is the concept of in-formation. In other
words, imposing forms on materials. This has been apparent
since the Industrial Revolution. A steel tool in a press is a form,
and it in-forms the flood of glass or plastic flowing past it into
bottles or ashtrays. In the past, it was a question of distinguish¬
ing between true and false information. True information was
when the forms were discoveries, and false information was
when the forms were fictions. This distinction is becoming
pointless since we have started to see forms neither as discov¬
eries ( aletheiai ) nor as fictions, but as models. In the past, there
was a point in distinguishing between science and art, and
now this has become pointless. The criteria for criticizing
information is now more like the following questions: To what
extent are the forms being imposed here capable of being
filled with material? To what extent are they capable of being
realized? To what extent is the information practical or
productive?

It is therefore not a question of whether images are the
surfaces of materials or the contents of electromagnetic fields.
But a question of the extent to which they arise from material,
as opposed to formal, thinking and seeing. Whatever ‘material’

may mean, it cannot mean the opposite of‘immaterial’. For the
‘immaterial’ or, to be more precise, the form is that which
makes material appear in the first place. The appearance of the
material is form. And this is of course a post-material claim.

War and the State of Things

Goethe, as is well known, recommends that Man be ‘noble,
generous and good’, thus showing how far we have left the
Enlightenment behind. Imagine reading out Goethe’s state¬
ment at a mass demonstration of fundamentalists in Algiers,
for instance (albeit in an Arabic translation). One can never¬
theless attempt to bring the qualities enumerated in Goethe’s
statement up to date. ‘Noble’ might be replaced by ‘elegant’,
and ‘generous’ perhaps by ‘user-friendly’. The difficulty would
be to reformulate the word good for the end of the
Millennium. In addition, one would have to define Goethe’s
term Man a little less precisely. Because since the demise of
humanism, we can no longer speak of Man in general
anymore. My essay entitled ‘The Ethics of Industrial Design?’
(see pp. 66-9) sets out to transfer Goethe’s good, but probably
overly ambitious, recommendation to the debate about design
in the following terms: ‘Let Man be elegant, user-friendly and
good.’

Let one simple example illustrate the problem. Take the case
of designing a paper-knife. Let the designer be elegant: Let the
knife be exceptional without being obtrusive (i.e. noble). Let
the designer be user-friendly: Let the knife be easy to handle
without any special knowledge (i.e. generous). Let the designer
be good: Let the knife be so efficient that it can cut through
paper (or anything resistant). As has already been indicated,
the notion of the good is problematic. After all, a knife can be
too good: It can not only cut paper but also its user’s finger.
Perhaps, then, Goethe’s recommendation needs to be refor¬
mulated slightly: ‘Let Man be noble, generous and good, but -
having said that - does he need to be all that good?’

What if one were to take as an example instead of the
paper-knife one of those rockets that were deployed in the
Gulf War. No doubt the designers of these objects are

extremely noble men: The rockets are elegant and can be
considered as characteristic works of contemporary art. Nor is
there any doubt about the designers being extremely generous
people: Even though the rockets are complex systems, they are
so easy to get to know your way around that any semi-literate
lout on the Upper Euphrates could use them. One could,
however, argue that the rockets’ designers are much too good
as people because these objects not only kill well (as they are
supposed to do) but also set off other rockets which then kill
whoever uses them.

The noble, generous and all-too-good designers of the Iraqi
rockets were probably Russian engineers. Perhaps they had
read Goethe (although in Russia they were more likely to have
been made to read Schiller at secondary school). From the
perspective of these noble men, there was nothing to criticize
about the quotation from Goethe. The fact that the users of
the rockets were killed represented a challenge for the design¬
ers to become even better. In other words: to design rockets
that killed the killers of the first killers to be killed. This is what
is called progress: Thanks to this feedback in design, men
become better and better. And thus more generous and noble
as well. Of course, such optimism - based as it is on dialectical
materialism - can be criticized from other perspectives.

This is not the time or place to argue against the progressive
improvement of design as a result of war. In other words: to
accuse what is known as the military-industrial complex of
being the origin of everything elegant, amiable and good. The
Gulf War made plain yet again what it would be like if there
were no wars. If in their day our ancestors in East Africa
100,000 years ago had not designed arrow-heads that were at
the same time elegant, user-friendly and good (and that could
therefore kill with elegant convenience), then we would proba¬
bly still be laying into each other or into animals with our
teeth and nails. It may be that war is not the only source of
good design (perhaps sex is also involved here; see fashions in

clothing, for example). But whether one prefers to say‘Make
love and war’ or ‘Make love,’ it is certainly not in the interest of
good design to say‘Make love not war.’

There are, however, people who are against war. They are
not willing to be killed by rockets (although, when asked, they
cannot say what kind of death they would prefer). Such people
are prepared, in the interest of peace, to accept bad design.
They are downright pleased if rockets, paper-knives and
arrow-heads get worse and worse and thus become less and
less elegant, less and less convenient. They are good people in a
totally different sense of‘goodness’ from the one intended.
These good people are good for nothing but for simply exist¬
ing. They are anti-designers.

Admittedly, when you see them completely at home using
the pavement designed in spite of them, one gets the impres¬
sion that they nevertheless do design things: jewellery for
instance. But they cannot keep this up for very long because
one cannot ‘make love’ forever (which the jewellery is intended
for) without lapsing into ‘making war’. One cannot at the same
time be ‘good in oneself’ and ‘good for something’; one has to
make a choice to be either a saint or a designer.

There may be a way out of this dilemma: either war and an
elegant, user-friendly life in the midst of good objects, or
everlasting peace and a squalid, inconvenient life in the midst
of badly functioning objects. Putting it another way: either
bad and convenient or inconvenient and saintly. Perhaps one
could propose a compromise: to design objects intentionally
less well than one might do. For example, arrow-heads that
continually miss, paper-knives that take less and less time to
get blunt, rockets that tend to explode in the air. Of course,
one would also have to put up with chairs that threatened to
collapse under the sitter and light bulbs that were continually
blowing out. This compromise between malevolence and
saintliness is widely recognized as being the goal of various
peace conferences (which are, unfortunately, only rarely

attended by designers themselves). In this case, Goethe’s
recommendation might go something like this: ‘Let Man be
noble, generous and more or less good, and thus, as time goes
by, less and less noble and generous as well.’ But then one
would still not have escaped the question of good, for the
following reasons:

Between pure good (‘moral’ good), which is good for noth¬
ing, and applied good (‘functional’ good), there can be
absolutely no compromise, because in the end everything
which is good in the case of applied good is bad in the case of
moral good. Whoever decides to become a designer has
decided against pure good. They may disguise this as much as
they wish (for example, by refusing to design rockets and
limiting themselves to designing doves of peace). They remain,
by their very involvement, trapped within the ambit of func¬
tional good. If they in fact begin to inquire into the pure good
of their activity (for example, by asking themselves what their
design for a dove of peace might be good for in the end), they
are forced not just to design the dove of peace badly, but not to
design it at all. There can be no such thing as a bad designer
acting out of nothing but pure good, because even the inten¬
tion of producing a bad design is functional and not pure. If
therefore a designer claims that he only designs objects that
correspond to his idea of pure good (eternal values and all
that), he is mistaken.

Unfortunately, this is the way it is with goodness: Everything
that is good for something is pure Evil. Those saints are quite
right who seek refuge in isolation from the world, living off
roots and hiding their nakedness with leaves. To put this in
rather more theological language: Pure good is pointless,
absurd, and, wherever there is a purpose for anything, you will
find the Devil lying in wait. From the perspective of pure good,
there is only a difference of degree between the elegant and
user-friendly designs of a chair and of a rocket: In both cases,
the Devil is lying in wait. Because they are both functional!

We have wandered a long way from the Enlightenment and
have ended up, by means of a back door as it were, with some¬
thing like the theological speculations of medieval obscuran¬
tism. Since the technicians had to apologize to the Nazis for
their gas chambers not being good enough - i.e. not killing
their ‘clients’ quickly enough - we have once more been made
aware what is meant by the Devil. We realize once more exactly
what is lying in wait behind the notion of good design.
Unfortunately, this does not stop us wanting to have elegant
and convenient objects. We insist, despite what we know about
the Devil, that the designer should be noble, generous and
good.

About Forms and Formulae

The Eternal God (may His name be praised) formed the
world out of chaos, out of what, according to the Bible, was
‘without form, and void’. The neurophysiologists (may they
remain nameless) have sussed Him out, and now every self-
respecting designer is capable of copying, and doing better
than, Him.

This is how it seems: For a long time, the forms to which
God the Creator had given substance were concealed behind
the substance, waiting there to be discovered. For example, the
Lord had invented the form of Heaven and imposed it upon
chaos on the first day of creation. Thus were the Heavens
created. People such as Pythagoras and Ptolemy discovered
and noted God’s forms behind phenomena. They are circles
and epicycles; this is what is known as research: discovering
God’s design behind phenomena.

Since the Renaissance, we have stumbled upon an amazing
and heretofore undigested fact: The Heavens can, it is true,
be formulated and formalized in Ptolemaic circles and epicy¬
cles, but better still in Copernican circles and Keplerian
ellipses.

How is that possible? Did God the Creator use circles, epicy¬
cles or ellipses on the first day of creation? Or was it the Masters
of Astronomy, not God the Master, who set out these forms? Is
it that the forms are not God’s but Man’s? Is it that they may
not exist eternally in the World Beyond, but that they exist to
be formed and modelled in This World? Is it that they are not
Ideas and ideals but forms and models? What is difficult to
digest about all this is not God’s demotion and His replace¬
ment by designers as Creators of the world. No, what is really
difficult to digest about all this is that the Heavens (along with
all aspects of nature) cannot be formalized in whatever way we
might wish, as ought to be the case if we really had assumed

God’s throne. Why, for example, do the planets follow either
circular or epicyclical or elliptical orbits rather than quadratic
or triangular ones? Why can we choose to formulate the laws of
nature in a variety of ways but not in any way we wish? Might
there be something out there that is prepared to swallow some
of our formulae but that spits out others, spits them out in our
face? Is there perhaps a ‘reality’ out there that allows itself to be
informed and formulated by us, but that nevertheless demands
that we adapt ourselves to it?

This question is difficult to digest since one cannot be the
designer and the creator of the world and at the same time
have to submit to this world. Fortunately (‘Thank God’ not
being appropriate here), we have recently discovered a solu¬
tion to this aporia. A solution that forms a loop like a Mobius
strip. And it starts to look like this: Our central nervous system
receives digitally coded stimuli from its environment (which
naturally includes our own body). These stimuli are processed
by the system, using what are as yet incompletely understood
electromagnetic and chemical methods, to become percep¬
tions, feelings, desires and thoughts. We perceive the world,
feel, desire and think along the lines the central nervous
system has processed, and this process is pre-programmed by
the central nervous system. It is written into the system within
our genetic information. The world has had the forms it has
for us laid down within genetic information since life began
on earth. This explains why we cannot impose any forms we
wish upon the world. The world only accepts those forms that
correspond to the program of our life.

We have managed to pull a fast one, not just one but a
whole series, on the program of our life. We have in fact
invented methods and machines that do something similar to
the nervous system, only in a different way. We can compute
the stimuli (particles) coming at us from all quarters in a
different way to the central nervous system. We can produce
different, alternative perceptions, feelings, desires and

thoughts. Apart from the world computed by the central
nervous system, we can also live in other worlds. We can expe¬
rience a multiple here and now. And the expression ‘here and
now’ can have multiple meanings. This statement may seem
fantastic, terrifying even, but there are more fam il iar terms for
this state: ‘Cyberspace’ and ‘virtual reality’ are common
euphemisms for it. They go together with the following
recipe:

Take a form, any form, in fact any algorithm that can be
expressed numerically. Feed this form via a computer into a
plotter. Stuff the form thus created as completely as possible
with particles. And there you have it: worlds ready to serve.
Every one of these worlds is just as real as the central nervous
system (at least the one we have had so far), providing it
manages to stuff the forms just as full as the central nervous
system does.

This is a fine witches’ brew: We cook up worlds in any form
we wish, and we do this at least as well as the Creator did in the
course of the much-celebrated six days. We are the master
witches’ brewers, the designers, and this makes it possible, now
that we have outsmarted God, to sweep away all the cant about
reality, along with Immanuel Kant: ‘Real’ means anything we,
with our social status, efficiency and perfectionism, give form
to by the use of the computer; ‘unreal’ means anything (e.g.
day-dreams, illusions) we do when we use the computer care¬
lessly. For example, the dream image of the woman we love is
not truly real because we have done our dreamwork carelessly.
If, however, we give the job to a professional designer who may
have a holograph at his disposal, he will come up with women
we really love, not careless dreams. This is the way things look
like they are going.

We have sussed out the Eternal God (may His name be
praised), pinched his recipes, and now we can cook even better
than Him. Is this really such a new story? What about
Prometheus and the fire he stole? Perhaps we think we are just

sitting at computers, while in fact we are chained to Mt
Caucasus? And perhaps there are eagles already sharpening
their beaks so as to peck out our livers.

The Designer’s Way of Seeing

There is a line in the Cherubinischer Wandersmann by the
seventeenth-century German religious poet Angelus Silesius
which I quote from memory: ‘The soul has two eyes: one look¬
ing into time, the other one looking way ahead into eternity.’
(Anyone who wants to be precise can look the quotation up
and get it right.) The way of seeing through the first eye has
undergone a series of technical improvements since the inven¬
tion of the telescope and the microscope. Nowadays, we can
command a longer, deeper and sharper insight into time than
Silesius could have envisaged. Recently, we have even gained
the ability to condense all of time into a single point in time
and see everything simultaneously on a television screen. As
for the second eye, the way of seeing that perceives eternity:
Only in the last few years have we begun to take the first steps
towards its technical perfection. That is what this essay is
about.

The possibility of looking through time into eternity and of
representing what can be perceived in the process has only
become relevant since the third millennium. It was in those
days that people stood on the hills of Mesopotamia looking
upriver and foresaw floods and droughts and marked lines
on clay tablets indicating canals that were to be dug in the
future. At the time, these people were thought of as prophets,
but we would call them designers instead. This difference in
the way the ‘second eye of the soul’ is judged is critical.

The people of Mesopotamia in those days, like most people
nowadays, held the belief that this way of seeing involved fore¬
seeing the future. If someone digs irrigation canals, he does
this because he can foresee the future course of the river. Since
the time of the Greek philosophers, however (and in the
meantime among all more or less educated people), the opin¬
ion has been that this second way of seeing sees eternity, not

the future. Not the future course of the Euphrates but
the form of all watercourses. Not the trajectory of a rocket but
the form of all trajectories in which bodies move in gravita¬
tional fields. Eternal forms. Only nowadays, educated
people do not share exactly the same opinion as the Greek
philosophers.

If we follow Plato, for example (who calls the way of seeing
through the soul’s second eye ‘theory’), we perceive through
fleeting phenomena the eternal, immutable Forms (‘Ideas’)
that exist in heaven. According to this scenario, what was
happening in those days in Mesopotamia was that some
people were perceiving and noting theoretical forms behind
the Euphrates. They were the first to employ geometrical
theory. The forms they discovered - e.g. triangles - are ‘true
forms’ (in Greek, ‘truth’ and ‘discovery’ are the same word - i.e.
aletheia). Yet when they marked the triangles into the clay
tablets, they were recording them. For example, the sum of the
angles of a drawn triangle is not exactly 180 degrees, even
though this is exactly the case with a theoretical triangle.
Mistakes occur in geometry as theory is translated into prac¬
tice. This is the reason why no man-made water system (or
rocket flight) goes totally according to plan.

We see things quite differently nowadays. We no longer
think (in a word) that we discover triangles, but that we invent
them. People in those days played with forms like triangles so
as to be able to work out the course of the Euphrates with
some degree of accuracy, and they then applied one after
another of the forms they were playing with to the river until
the river fitted it. Galileo did not discover the formula of free
fall, he invented it: He tried one formula after another until the
problem of heavy bodies falling worked out. Thus the theory
of geometry (and the theory of mechanics) is a design that we
force upon phenomena in order to get hold of them. This
sounds more reasonable than the Platonic belief in heavenly
Ideas, but in reality it is exceptionally unsettling.

If the so-called laws of nature are our invention, why do the
Euphrates and rockets keep to them and not to other forms
and formulae that are just as good? Admittedly, whether the
sun orbits the earth or the earth orbits the sun is simply a
question of design. But is the way stones fall a question of
design? To put it another way: If we no longer share Plato’s
opinion that the designer of phenomena is in heaven and has
to be discovered in theory, but believe instead that we
ourselves design phenomena, why then do they seem to be as
they are instead of looking the way we wish them to be? This
unsettling aspect cannot be sidestepped here.

On the other hand, there is no doubt that forms, whether
discovered or invented, whether made by a heavenly or a
human designer, are eternal - i.e. free of all time and space.

The sum of the angles of a theoretical triangle is always and
eternally 180 degrees, whether we discovered it in heaven or
invented it at the drawing-board. And if we warp the drawing-
board and design non-Euclidean triangles with the sum of
their angles being different, then such triangles are also eter¬
nal. The designer’s way of seeing - both the human and the
heavenly designer’s - doubtless corresponds to that of the
soul’s second eye. Here there arises the following intriguing
question: What does eternity actually look like? Like a triangle
(as in the case of the Euphrates) or like an equation (as in the
case of falling stones) or like something else? Answer: It may
look anyway it likes; thanks to analytical geometry, it can
always be reduced to equations.

This could be the beginning of a technology of the soul’s
second eye. All eternal forms, all immutable Ideas, can be
formulated as equations, and these equations can be translated
from the numerical code into computer codes and fed into
computers. The computer for its part can display these algo¬
rithms as lines, areas and (a bit later on) volumes on the screen
and in holograms, out of which it can create ‘numerically
generated’ artificial images. What one then sees with the soul’s

first eye is exactly what is perceived with the soul’s second eye.
What appears on the computer screen are eternal, immutable
forms (e.g. triangles) produced by eternal, immutable formu¬
lae (e.g. ‘1 + 1 = 2’). Paradoxically, these immutable forms can
change: One can distort, twist, shrink and enlarge triangles.
And everything that results from this is likewise an eternal,
immutable form. The soul’s second eye continues to look into
eternity, but this is now an eternity that it can manipulate.

This is the designer’s way of seeing: He has a sort of pineal
eye (partitioning just like a computer in fact) that enables him
to perceive and control eternities. And he can give orders to a
robot to translate into the here and now that which is
perceived and manipulated in the eternal (for example, to dig
canals or build rockets). In Mesopotamia, he was called a
prophet. He is more deserving of the name of God. But thank
God he is unaware of this and sees himself as a technician or
artist. May God preserve him in this belief.

The Factory

The name that zoological taxonomy gives to our kind - homo
sapiens sapiens- expresses the opinion that we are to be distin¬
guished from the kinds of hominid that preceded us by a
double dose of wisdom. In light of what we have got up to, this
is rather questionable. On the other hand, the name homo
faber, being less zoological than anthropological, is also less
ideological. It means that we belong to those kinds of anthro¬
poids who manufacture something. This is a functional term
since it allows one to introduce the following criterion:
Whenever we find any hominid anywhere in whose vicinity
there is a working-floor, and whenever it is clear that a
hominid has worked in this ‘factory’, then this hominid should
be referred to as homo faber- i.e. a real human being. For
example, there are remains of ape skeletons which make it
clear that the stones in their vicinity were collected by them
and were worked in a factory-like context. Despite any zoolog¬
ical doubts, such apes are homines fabri - i.e. should be
referred to as real human beings. Thus ‘factory’ is the common
human characteristic, what used to be referred to as human
‘dignity’. By their factories ye shall know them.

This is what prehistorians do and historians ought to do
but do not always keep to: studying factories so as to identify
the human being. In order to discover how Neolithic human
beings lived, thought, felt, behaved and suffered, one can do no
better than study pottery working-floors in detail. Everything,
particularly the science, politics, art and religion of the society
of the time, can be traced back to factory organization and the
manufacture of pots. The same goes for all other periods. If,
for example, a shoemaker’s workshop from fourteenth-
century northern Italy is subjected to close examination, the
roots of Humanism, the Reformation and the Renaissance can
be understood more thoroughly than by studying the works of

art and political, philosophical and theological texts. Because
most of these works of art and texts were produced by monks,
whereas the big revolutions of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries originated in workshops and in the tensions
contained within them. So anybody who wants to know about
our past should concentrate on excavating the ruins of facto¬
ries. Anybody who wants to know about our present should
concentrate on examining present-day factories critically. And
anybody who addresses the issue of our future should raise the
question of the factory of the future.

If, then, one sees human history as the history of manufac¬
turing and everything else as mere footnotes, the following
rough periods can be distinguished: hands, tools, machines,
robots. Manufacturing means turning what is available in the
environment to one’s own advantage, turning it into some¬
thing manufactured, turning it over to use and thus turning it
to account. These turning movements are carried out initially
by hands, then by tools, machines and, finally, robots. Because
human hands, just like apes’ hands, are organs for turning
(since the act of turning is genetically inherited information),
then tools, machines and robots can be regarded as simula¬
tions of hands which extend one’s hands rather like prostheses
and therefore enlarge the pool of inherited information by
means of acquired, cultural information. Accordingly, facto¬
ries are places where what is available in the environment is
turned into manufactures, and at the same time less and less
inherited information and more and more acquired, learned
information is introduced. These are places in which human
beings become less and less natural and more and more artifi¬
cial, for the reason that the things turned into other things, the
manufactures, strike back at the human being: A shoemaker
not only makes leather shoes; he also makes a shoemaker out
of himself. To make the same point a bit differently: Factories
are places in which new kinds of human beings are always
being produced: first the hand-man, then the tool-man, then

the machine-man, and finally the robot-man. To repeat: This
is the story of humankind.

We find it difficult to reconstruct the first Industrial
Revolution, the one from hand to tool, even though it is well
documented by archaeological finds. One thing is certain
about it: As soon as a tool - e.g. a hand-axe - is introduced,
one can speak of a new form of human existence. A human
being surrounded by tools, such as hand-axes, arrow-heads,
needles, knives - in short, culture - is no longer at home in the
environment in the way that primitive man using his hands is:
He is alienated from the environment, and he is both
protected and imprisoned by culture.

The second Industrial Revolution, the one from tool to
machine, is barely two hundred years old, and we are only just
beginning to come to grips with it. Machines are tools that are
designed and produced in accordance with scientific theory,
and therefore they are more efficient, quicker to use and more
expensive. Thus the relationship between human being and
tool is reversed, and human existence changes. In the case of
the tool, the human being is the constant and the tool is the
variable: The shoemaker is seated in the middle of the work¬
shop, and when he breaks a needle he replaces it with another.
In the case of the machine, it is the constant and the human
being is the variable: The machine is situated in the middle of
the workshop, and when the human being becomes old or ill,
the owner of the machine replaces him with another. To all
appearances, the owner of the machine, the manufacturer, is
the constant and the machine his variable, but on closer
inspection the manufacturer is also a variable of the machine
or of the plant as a whole. The second Industrial Revolution
has cast the human being out of his culture just as the first one
cast him out of nature, and in this respect the machine factory
can be regarded as a sort of madhouse.

The third Industrial Revolution, the one from machine to
robot, is now at issue. It is still very much under way, its end is

not in sight, and so we ask: What will the factory of the future
look like (the one our grandchildren will be familiar with)?

The simple question about the actual meaning of the word
robot brings difficulties with it. One possible answer might be:
Machines are tools that are built according to scientific theory
when science is understood as meaning chiefly physics and
chemistry, and robots can additionally bring neurophysiologi¬
cal and biological theory and hypotheses into play. To express
this in terms of the simulation of hands and bodies: Tools are
empirical, machines are mechanical, and robots are neuro¬
physiological and biological. It is a question of‘turning’ more
and more deceptively accurate simulations of genetic, inher¬
ited information into things. Because so far, robots provide the
most accomplished way of turning things over to use. You can
be certain that the factory of the future will be much more
adaptable than those of today, and it will be sure to redefine
the relationship between human being and tool in a totally
new way. We can count on it being possible to overcome the
crazy alienation of the human being from nature and culture
such as it was at the height of the machine revolution. The
factory of the future will cease to be a madhouse and will
become a place in which the creative potential of homofaber
will come into its own.

This is above all a question of the relationship between
human being and tool. It is therefore a question of topology
or, if you like, architecture. As long as manufacturing takes
place without tools - i.e. as long as homofaber acts directly
upon nature, using his hands to turn things to his own advan¬
tage and turn things into something else - during all this time
one cannot identify a locality for the factory; it has no ‘topos’.
So-called primitive man working‘eoliths’ manufactures things
everywhere and nowhere. As soon as tools are introduced,
specialized factory areas can and must be cut out of the envi¬
ronment. Places, for example, where flint is hewn out of rock,
and others where flint is turned into something else, so as to be

turned over to use and turned to good use. These factory areas
are circular features in the middle of which stands the human
being from whom circles of tools radiate outwards, themselves
encompassed within the circles of nature beyond. This factory
architecture has been the norm for practically the whole of
human history. With the invention of machines, this architec¬
ture has to change in the following way:

Given that the machine has to be situated in the middle,
due to the fact that it is more durable and more valuable in the
manufacturing process than the human being is, human archi¬
tecture has to be subordinated to that of machines. At first in
Western Europe and on the East Coast of America, then every¬
where, there come into being enormous concentrations of
machines forming clusters in a network of interaction. The
threads in the network, being ambivalent, can be organized
centripetally or centrifugally. Along the centripetal threads,
things relating to nature and human beings are sucked into
machines so as to be turned over to use and turned to good
use. Along the centrifugal threads, the things and human
beings turned into something else flow out of the machines.
The machines are linked within the network, forming machine
complexes, and these in their turn are linked to form indus¬
trial plants, and in the network human settlements form those
places from which human beings are sucked into factories,
only to be sucked out periodically, spewed out again from
there. The whole of nature is drawn into the circularity of this
mechanical suction. This is the structure of factory architec¬
ture in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

This structure will be changed fundamentally by robots.
Not just because robots can be turned to more uses and so are
basically smaller and cheaper than machines, but because they
are not constant in relation to human beings. It becomes
more and more apparent that the relationship between
human being and robot is reversible and that they can only
function together: the human being in effect as a function of

the robot, and by the same token the robot as a function of
the human being. The robot only does what the human being
wants, but the human being can only want what the robot can
do. A new method of manufacturing - i.e. of functioning - is
coming into being: The human being is a functionary of
robots that function as a function of him. This new human
being, the functionary, is linked to robots by thousands of
partly invisible threads: Wherever he goes, stands or lies, he
carries the robots around with him (or is carried around by
them), and whatever he does or suffers can be interpreted as a
function of the robot.

At first glance, it looks as though we are almost back to the
pre-tool phase of manufacturing. Just like primitive man
acting directly on nature using his hands and therefore manu¬
facturing all the time and everywhere, future functionaries
equipped with tiny or even invisible robots will be engaged in
manufacture all the time and everywhere. Thus not only will
the giant industrial complexes of the machine age die out like
the dinosaurs and at best be exhibited in historical museums;
workshops too will become redundant. Thanks to robots,
everyone will be linked to everyone else everywhere and all the
time by reversible cable, and via these cables (as well as the
robots) they will turn to use everything available to be turned
into something and thus turned to account.

Such a telematic, post-industrial, post-historical view of the
future of homo faber has a catch, however. It is in fact the case
that the more complex tools become, the more abstract their
functions become. Primitive man using his hands could try
and get by with concrete inherited information as to the use of
the things available to be turned to his advantage. To make use
of tools, the manufacturer of hand-axes, pots and shoes had to
acquire this information empirically. Machines called not just
for empirical information but for the acquisition of theoretical
information as well, and this explains the need for universal
education: elementary schools for learning how to use

machines, secondary schools for learning how to maintain
machines, and universities for learning how to build new
machines. Robots call for a much more abstract learning
process and the development of disciplines that have not been
generally accessible up to now. Linking human beings up
telematically to the network by means of robots and the conse¬
quent disappearance of the factory (to be more accurate: the
becoming immaterial of the factory) presume that all human
beings are competent enough for this. This competence
should not be taken for granted.

This provides a hint as to what factories of the future will
look like: like schools in fact. They will have to be places where
human beings can learn how robots function so that these
robots can then relieve human beings of the task of turning
nature into culture. In fact, the human beings of the future in
the factories of the future will learn to do this by, with and
from robots. Thus in the case of the factory of the future, we
will have to think more in terms of scientific laboratories, art
academies and libraries and collections of recordings than in
terms of present-day factories. And we shall have to look upon
the robot-man of the future more as an academic than as an
artisan, worker or engineer.

But this gives rise to a conceptual problem that forms the
nub of these observations: The classical image of a factory is
the opposite of a school: A ‘school’ is a place of contempla¬
tion, of leisure ( otium , schole), and a ‘factory’ is a place that
has given up contemplation ( negotium , ascholia)-, a ‘school’ is
something to look up to, and a ‘factory’ is something to look
down on. Even the Romantic sons of the founders of industry
shared this classical view. Now the basic error of the Platonists
and the Romantics is becoming clear for all to see. As long as
the school and the factory are in fact separated and look down
on one another, industrial chaos is the rule. When, however,
robots begin to oust machines, it becomes apparent that the
factory is nothing but an applied school and the school

nothing but a factory for the acquisition of information. And
at this point, the term homo faber comes into its own for the
first time.

This allows one to formulate the question of the factory of
the future in terms of topology and architecture. The factory
will have to be the place in which human beings altogether will
learn by means of robots: what, why and how to turn things to
use. And the factory architects of the future will have to design
schools. To put this in classical terms: academies, temples of
wisdom. What these temples will look like, whether they will
be down to earth in a material sense or up in the air in a semi¬
material sense or else in a largely immaterial sense, is beside
the question. The only crucial thing is that the factory of the
future will have to be the place where homo faber becomes
homo sapiens sapiens because he has realized that manufac¬
turing means the same thing as learning - i.e. acquiring,
producing and passing on information.

This sounds at least as utopian as the telematic society
linked to a network and using self-regulating robots. But in
reality, it is nothing but a projection of tendencies that can
already be observed. Such factory-schools and school-factories
are coming into existence everywhere.

The Lever Strikes Back

Machines are simulated organs of the human body. The lever,
for example, is an extended arm. It increases the ability of the
arm to lift and ignores all the other functions the arm has. It is
more ‘stupid’ than the arm, but it therefore reaches further and
lifts heavier loads.

Stone blades - made like carnassial teeth - are amongst the
oldest machines. They are older than homo sapiens sapiens ,
and they can still tear today: because they are not in fact
organic but made of stone. Paleolithic man probably also had
living machines: jackals, for example, which he made use of in
hunting as extended legs and carnassial teeth. As carnassial
teeth, jackals are less stupid than stone blades; therefore stone
blades are more durable. This may be one reason why both
‘non-organic’ and organic machines were used right up to the
Industrial Revolution: knives as well as jackals, levers as well as
donkeys, shovels as well as slaves. So as to be able to make use
of the durability of one as well as the intelligence of the other.
But‘intelligent’ machines (jackals, donkeys and slaves) are
structurally more complicated than ‘stupid’ ones. That is the
reason why, since the Industrial Revolution, we have started to
dispense with them.

The industrial machine differs from a pre-industrial one in
that it is based on a scientific theory. Of course, the pre-indus¬
trial lever has a gut feeling about the principle of the lever, but
only with the industrial lever does it know what it is about.
This is usually expressed in the following way: Pre-industrial
machines are empirical; industrial ones are produced by tech¬
nology. At the time of the Industrial Revolution, science had a
series of theories concerning the ‘non-organic’ world at its
disposal - in particular, theories of mechanics. But when it
came to the organic world, it had few ideas about theories.
What kind of gut feeling a donkey might have had about laws

was a mystery not only to the donkey but to the scientists as
well. Thus, since the Industrial Revolution, the ox has given
way to the locomotive and the horse to the aeroplane. The ox
and the horse cannot be produced by technology. As far as
slaves were concerned, it was a more complicated business.
Technological machines became not only more and more
efficient but bigger and more expensive as well. For this
reason, the ‘Man/machine’ relationship was reversed, and Man
did not use machines anymore but was used by them. He
became a relatively intelligent slave of relatively stupid
machines.

In our century, this has changed a bit. Theories have
become more sophisticated, and thus machines have become
more and more efficient and at the same time smaller and,
above all, more ‘intelligent’. Slaves have become more and
more superfluous and have sought refuge from machines in
the service sector or have become unemployed. These are the
familiar results of the automation and ‘robotization’ character¬
istic of what is happening in post-industrial society. But this is
not the change that really matters. What is rather more impor¬
tant is the fact that theories are beginning to be available for
possible application to the organic world as well. We are begin¬
ning to find out which laws govern the donkey’s gut feeling. So
in the future, technology will be able to produce oxen, horses,
slaves and super-slaves. This might be called the second or
‘biological’ Industrial Revolution.

At the same time, it will become apparent that the attempt
to build ‘intelligent, non-organic’ machines is at best a
makeshift, and at worst a mistake; a lever does not have to be a
stupid arm if it is built into a central nervous system. The high
level of intelligence of the ox can even be surpassed by loco¬
motives built fully in accordance with ‘biological’ principles.
The durability of the ‘non-organic’ can be combined with the
intelligence of the organic in the future construction of
machines. Soon the place will be crawling with stone jackals.

But this is not necessarily an ideal situation: to be crawling
with stone jackals, oxen, slaves and super-slaves at the same
time as we are trying to eat and digest the industrial by-prod¬
ucts poured out by them. This cannot be allowed. Not only, in
fact, because these ‘stone intelligences’ are becoming increas¬
ingly more intelligent and therefore not stupid enough to
serve us. This cannot be because machines already strike back
at us even when they are stupid. How much more will they
strike back when they have become smarter?

The old lever is striking back at us: We have been moving
our arms as though they were levers since we have had levers.
We simulate that which we have simulated. Since we have been
pastoralists we have behaved like herds of sheep and have
needed pastors. This striking back on the part of machines is
now becoming clear for all to see: young people dancing like
robots, politicians making decisions based on computerized
scenarios, scientists thinking digitally, and artists using plot¬
ters. Consequently, the fact that the lever is striking back will
have to be taken into account in the future construction of
machines. It is not enough simply to take the economy and
ecology into consideration in the construction of machines.
We will have to think about the ways in which such machines
may strike back at us. A difficult thing to do considering that
most machines nowadays are made by ‘intelligent machines’
and that we ourselves only look on from the side-lines, as it
were, intervening only occasionally.

This is a problem of design: What should machines be like if
their striking back is not to cause us pain? Or, better still: if it is
to do us some good? What should the stone jackals be like if
they are not to tear us apart and if we ourselves are not to
behave like jackals? Naturally, we can design them in such a
way that they lick us instead of biting us. But do we really want
to be licked? These are difficult questions because nobody
really knows what they want to be like. However, these issues
need to be addressed before one can start to design stone

jackals (or mollusc clones or bacterial chimeras for that
matter). And these issues are more interesting than future
stone jackals and supermen. Are designers ready to address
them?

Shelters, Screens and Tents

We are admittedly surrounded by a lot of stupid objects, but
when it comes to shelter, umbrellas must be among the most
stupid. Umbrellas (what Germans call Regenschirme- i.e. rain
screens) are relatively complicated contraptions which refuse to
work just when they are needed (when it is windy, for instance);
they give inadequate protection, are inconvenient to carry
around and generally threaten to poke other people’s eyes out if
they are not equipped with umbrellas too. Quite apart from the
fact that umbrellas get left behind and taken by mistake. There
are admittedly fashions in shelter, but in fact there have been no
technical advances since the ancient Egyptians. Indeed, when
the Bible says ‘The Eternal God is thy refuge,’ it is being blasphe¬
mous comparing God with such things.

When you see the speed and convenience with which giant
circus tents are put up and taken down, you might think that
we have not done too badly as regards shelter: It is not people’s
fault if they do not know how to do it properly, and they will
soon learn to do it when they go camping. But when you
consider parachutes (what Germans call Fallschirme- i.e. fall
screens), you return to your original opinion regarding the
stupidity of shelters. There you are jumping out of an aero¬
plane and the wind automatically opens the ’chute. But as soon
as you are down on the ground, you have the devil of a job fold¬
ing the ’chute up again. This illustrates what is so outrageously
stupid about shelters, and about tents in general (tents being
perhaps the very essence of shelter): Since the ancient
Egyptians, architects (and tent designers in general) have not
tumbled to the fact that they are dealing with the wind and not
with gravity. The fact that the danger with shelters such as tents
is not their falling down but their being swept all over the place
by the wind. This will change. People will learn to think more
‘immaterially’ as soon as walls have been torn down.

If we again try and give expression to the tent’s essential
nature: It is a sort of protective covering providing a refuge
that can be put up in the wind, used against the wind and then
folded up again in the wind. Faced by such a description of the
essential nature of the tent, who would not be reminded of
sails? And in fact, the sail is precisely the form of tent that
brings the wind under control for once. The tent as a shelter
tries to resist the wind, but the tent as a sail tries to exploit the
wind’s power. The sail is as smart as the shelter is stupid: A
properly built sailing-ship can almost sail against the wind and
is only ever helpless when there is no wind. And a glider can
manipulate the wind not only horizontally but also vertically.
Thus designers of the future will have to think of their designs
by analogy not with umbrellas but with kites made to dance in
the wind by children. Cracking the problem of the essential
nature of the tent reveals parachutes and gliders to be just two
of many variations on the theme of a tent. Because this solu¬
tion recognizes in the tent a screen that is blown by the wind.

A screen wall is to a solid wall as being blown by the wind is to
forming a wind-break: This is not a bad place to start an analy¬
sis of the cultural change bearing down upon us. Before going
into the problem of walls, however, one must think about the
wind, and this leads one into familiar territory. For example,
the fact that one can, it is true, hear the wind (it often roars
deafeningly), that one can feel it (it can knock one over),
but that one cannot see the thing itself, only the often horren¬
dous consequences of its passing. As soon as one goes from
solid walls to screen walls, everything seems to become more
immaterial.

A screen wall - whether it is anchored into the ground as in
the case of a circus tent, opened up at the end of a stick as in
the case of an umbrella, floats in the air as in the case of a
parachute or kite, flaps on a mast as in the case of a sailing-
ship or flag - is a wind wall. A solid wall, on the other hand, in
whatever form it takes and no matter how many windows and

doors it possesses, is a rock wall. Thus a house, like the cave
from which it derives, is a dark secret (like that ‘secret place of
the heart’, a home), and a tent, like a nest in a tree, of which it
is a descendant, is a place where people assemble and disperse,
a calming of the wind. In a house, things are possessed; it is
property, and this property is defined by walls. In a tent, things
are experienced; it assembles experience, and this experience is
subdivided and diversified by means of the tent wall. The fact
that the tent wall is woven - i.e. a network - and that experi¬
ences are processed on this network is contained within the
word screen. It is a piece of cloth that is open to experiences
(open to the wind, open to the spirit) and that stores this expe¬
rience. Since ancient times, the screen wall has stored images
in the form of carpets; since the invention of oil painting in
the form of exhibited pictures; since the invention of film in
the form of projected pictures, since the invention of televi¬
sion, it has acted as a screen for electromagnetically networked
images; and since the invention of computer plotters, the tent
wall, now in an immaterial form, has made possible the subdi¬
vision and diversification of images thanks to the processing of
its network. The screen wall blowing in the wind assembles
experience, processes it and disseminates it, and it is to be
thanked for the fact that the tent is a creative nest.

Design: Obstacle for/to the Removal of Obstacles

An ‘object’ is what gets in the way, a problem thrown in your
path like a projectile (coming as it does from the Latin ob-
iectum, Greek problema). The world is objective, substantial,
problematic as long as it obstructs. An ‘object of use’ is an
object which one uses and needs to get other objects out of the
way. This definition contains within it a contradiction: an
obstacle for/to the removal of obstacles? This contradiction is
what is called the ‘internal dialectic of culture’ (if by ‘culture’
we mean the totality of all objects of use). This dialectic can be
summed up as follows: I come across obstacles in my path
(come across the objective, substantial, problematic world); I
overturn some of these obstacles (transform them into objects
of use, into culture) in order to continue, and the objects thus
overturned prove to be obstacles in themselves. The more I
continue, the more I am obstructed by objects of use (more in
the form of cars and administrative machinery than in the
form of hailstones and man-eating tigers). And I am in fact
doubly obstructed: first, because I use them in order to
continue, and second, because they get in my way. To put it
another way: The more I continue, the more objective,
substantial and problematic culture becomes.

This by way of an introduction - to the state of things as it
were. In the case of objects of use, it is therefore possible to ask
how and why these projectiles have been thrown into one’s
path. (In the case of other objects, such a question is point¬
less.) And the answer to the question is: They were projected as
designs on the part of people who went before. They are
projected designs that I need in order to continue and that
obstruct me from continuing. In an attempt to break out of
this vicious circle, I project designs myself: I myself throw
objects of use into the path of other people. What form must I
give these projected designs so that those coming after me can

use them to help them to continue and at the same time avoid
being obstructed as much as possible? This is both a political
and an aesthetic question and forms the central concern when
it comes to creating things.

The question can also be formulated along different lines.

In the case of objects of use, I come across designs projected by
other people. (In the case of other objects, I come across some¬
thing different, perhaps something quite Other.) Objects of
use are therefore mediations (media) between myself and
other people, not just objects. They are not just objective but
inter-subjective as well, not just problematic but dialogic as
well. The question about creating things can also be formu¬
lated in this way: Can I give form to my projected designs in
such a way that the communicative, the inter-subjective, the
dialogic are more strongly emphasized than the objective, the
substantial and the problematic?

When it comes to creating things, one is faced with the
question of responsibility (and thus with freedom). Faced with
freedom, naturally. Whoever projects designs for objects of use
(whoever produces culture) throws obstacles in other people’s
way, and nothing can be done about this (not even for exam¬
ple one’s intention to promote emancipation). But the fact
must be borne in mind that when it comes to creating things,
one is faced with the question of responsibility, and this is
what makes it possible to talk of freedom in relation to culture
in the first place. Responsibility is the decision to answer for
things to other people. It is openness to other people. If I
decide to answer for something in creating my design, then in
the object of use designed by me I emphasize the inter-subjec¬
tive and not the objective. And the more I direct attention
towards the object in the creation of my design (the more irre¬
sponsibly I design it), the more the object will obstruct those
coming after me, and the area for manoeuvre in the culture
will shrink. A glance at the current situation of culture is
evidence of this: It is characterized by objects of use whose

designs were created irresponsibly, with attention directed
towards the object. This is almost inevitable in the current
situation (and has been since the Renaissance at least). At least
since that time, those doing the designing have been people
who have projected their designs onto objects so as to produce
more and more useful objects of use. The objects resist these
designs. This opposition seizes the attention of those creating
the designs, making it possible for them to penetrate more and
more deeply into the objective, substantial, problematic world,
to become more and more familiar with it and to master it.
This makes scientific and technical progress possible. This
progress has such a hold that those creating designs mean¬
while forget that other progress, progress in the approach to
other people. Scientific and technical progress has such a hold
that any act of creating designs responsibly is thought to be a
backward step. The current situation of culture is as it is
precisely because creating designs responsibly is thought to be
backward-looking.

The prophets called this hold over us on the part of the
objective world ‘pagan, and objects of use that have a hold
over people as objects they called ‘idols’. From their perspec¬
tive, the current situation of culture is characterized by idola¬
try. There are, however, indications that this attitude towards
creating designs is starting to change. Such that designs are
becoming less and less ‘pagan’ and more and more ‘prophetic’.
In fact, one is starting to free the term object from the term
material and to design immaterial objects of use such as
computer programs and communications networks. This is
not to say that an ‘immaterial culture’ beginning to grow in
this way would be less obstructive: It probably restricts free¬
dom even more than the material one. But in creating such
immaterial designs, the point of view of those creating the
designs is, as it were, spontaneously directed towards other
people. It is instructed by the immaterial itself about how to
create designs responsibly. Immaterial objects of use are idols

(and thus worshipped), but they are transparent idols and
make it possible for other people to see what is going on
behind the scenes. Their mediated, inter-subjective, dialogic
side is visible.

This is of course not enough of a reason to hope for a more
responsible culture in the future. But there is an additional
point to mention that may justify such optimism. Objects of use
are after all obstructions that I need in order to progress, and
the more I need them, the more I use them up. Used objects of
use are those for which the design projecting them into one’s
path has been obliterated. They have lost the form projected
upon them by design; they are de-formed and thrown away.

This can be traced back to the second law of thermodynamics,
which states that all material tends to lose its form (its in¬
formation) . This principle does not hold any less well (if less
impressively) in the case of immaterial objects of use: They too
are on the road to entropy. We are beginning to become
conscious of the temporal nature of all forms (and thus of all
creation). Since entropy is beginning to obstruct us at least as
much as objects of use are. The question of responsibility and
freedom (this being the essential question of creation) arises
not only in the process of designing but also in the process of
throwing away objects of use. It may be that consciousness of
the temporality of all creation (even that of immaterial designs)
will contribute to a future situation in which things will be
designed a bit more responsibly, resulting in a culture with less
and less room for objects of use to act as obstacles and more and
more room for them to serve as vehicles for interpersonal
contact. A culture with a bit more freedom.

Why Do Typewriters Go ‘Click’?

The explanation is simple: Clicking is more easily mechanized
than sliding. Machines are stutterers even if they appear to
slide. This becomes clear when cars and film projectors start to
go wrong. But this explanation is inadequate. Because what lies
behind the question is: Why do machines stutter? The answer
is: Because everything there is in the world (and the whole
world itself) stutters. This only becomes clear when one takes a
closer look. Democritus already suspected it, but not until
Planck was anyone able to prove it: Everything quantizes. Thus
numbers, but not letters, correspond to the world. It is open to
calculation but not to description. Therefore, numbers have to
break out of the alphanumeric code and make themselves inde¬
pendent. Letters entice one into endless discussion about the
world and have to be put to one side as not equal to the task.
This is precisely what is happening. Numbers abandon the
alphanumeric code in favour of new codes (the digital code, for
example) and they feed computers. Letters (if they want to
survive) have to simulate numbers. This is why typewriters go
click’.

A few things need to be said here. For example, the fact that
everything in the world stutters has only become apparent
since people have started to count everything. In order to count
it, everything has been split up into little bits (‘calculi’), and
then a number has been attached to every little bit. Perhaps,
then, the fact that the world is a scattering of particles is a
consequence of our counting? Not so much a discovery then,
more an invention? Do we discover in the world what we have
fed into it ourselves? Perhaps the world is only open to calcula¬
tion because we cobbled it together in our calculations. It is not
numbers that correspond to the world: We have set the world
up in such a way that it corresponds to our number code. These
are rather unsettling thoughts.

They are unsettling for the simple reason that they lead to
the following conclusion: The world is now a scattering of
particles because that is how we cobbled it together in doing
our calculations. Before that, however (at least since the Greek
philosophers), the world was described alphabetically.
Therefore, at that time it had to adhere to the discipline
imposed by the rules of discourse - i.e. the rules of logic rather
than the rules of mathematics. In fact, Hegel was still of the
opinion, apparently mad to us now, that everything in the
world was logical. We are now of the opposite opinion:
Everything in the world can be traced back to absurd chance
events that can be worked out by the calculus of probability.
Hegel was thinking in words (in ‘dialectic’ discourse), whereas
we think in calculations (we process punctuated data).

The whole thing gets still more unsettling when one
considers that Russell and Whitehead proved in Principia
Mathematica that the rules of logic cannot entirely be traced
back to the rules of mathematics. As is well known, these two
men tried to manipulate logical thinking by using mathemat¬
ics (the ‘calculus of propositions’) and came up against this
irreducibility. Thus it is not possible to build a really proper
bridge between the world of description (Hegel’s world, for
example) and the world of calculation (Planck’s world, for
example). Since we have applied the methodology of calcula¬
tion to the world (i.e. at least since Descartes’ analytical geom¬
etry), the structure of the world has changed beyond all
recognition. News of this has got around slowly.

This may tempt us to conclude that it is up to us how the
world is structured. If we wish to write a description of it, then
it has all the appearance of logical discourse, and if we prefer
to calculate, then it has the appearance of a scattering of parti¬
cles. This would be jumping to conclusions, though. Only
since we have calculated have we had machines (typewriters,
for example), and we could not live without machines, even if
we wanted to. We are therefore forced to calculate rather than

to write, and if we insist on writing, then we have to go ‘click’.

To all appearances, it seems as if the world had in fact to be
cobbled together for the purposes of calculation but that the
world itself demanded that it be cobbled together.

At this point in the brain teaser, it is a good idea to hold our
horses a bit. Otherwise, one runs the risk of falling into an
abyss (into the realm of religion). To avoid falling like this into
a Pythagorean worship of numbers, it is necessary to examine
the movements one makes while calculating, as opposed to
those one makes while writing. In the days when one still
wrote by hand, one made a line going from left to right ( that
is, if one lived in the West) that wound its way from one side of
the paper to the other with occasional breaks. This was a linear
movement. When one calculates, one picks little bits out of a
large heap and assembles them in little heaps. This is a punctu¬
ated movement. First, one calculates (picks out) and then one
computes (assembles). One analyzes in order to synthesize.
This is the radical difference between writing and calculation:
Calculation is directed towards synthesis, but writing is not.

People who subscribe to the cause of writing try to deny
this. In calculation, all they see is the doing of sums, and this
they call cold and unemotional. This is a downright mischie¬
vous misunderstanding. What calculation is all about is
computing cold sums into new things that have never existed
before. This white heat of creativity is closed to people who do
not go in for calculation as long as they see calculation merely
as a question of numbers. They are unable to experience the
beauty and philosophical depth of some outstanding equa¬
tions (Einstein’s, for example). But now that one can re-code
numbers in the form of colours, shapes and sounds with the
aid of computers, the beauty and depth of calculation are there
for all to feel. One can see its creative force on computer
screens, hear it in the form of synthesized music, and in future
one will probably be able to experience it ‘hands on’ through
the use of holograms. The exciting thing about calculation is

not that it cobbles the world together (writing can do this as
well), but that it is capable of projecting other worlds from
within itself for all to feel.

There is not much point in pouring scorn on these synthet¬
ically projected worlds for being simulations of the actual
world, for being fictions. These worlds are concentrations of
dots, computations of sums. But the same goes for the ‘actual’
world we are thrown into. It too is computed by our nervous
system calculating on the basis of punctuated stimuli, and this
is then perceived as actual. Thus either the projected worlds
are just as actual as the ‘actual’ world (if they assemble the dots
in the same concentration as the ‘actual’ one), or the ‘actually’
perceived world is just as much a fiction as the ones projected.
What the cultural revolution now under way is all about is that
we have gained the ability to set alternative worlds alongside
the one taken by us as given. That we are going from being the
subjects of a single world to becoming the projections of many
worlds. That we have started to learn how to calculate.

Omar Khayyam says: ‘Ah love! Could you and I with fate
conspire/To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,/Would
not we shatter it to bits - and then/Re-mould it nearer to the
heart’s desire?’ People are starting to see that we are in the
process of shattering the sorry scheme of things entirely to
bits. Not, however, so that we can re-code it just as our heart
desires. People should at last learn how to do arithmetic.

The Ethics of Industrial Design?

Not so long ago, this would have been an unnecessary ques¬
tion. The morality of things? The designer used to have the
production of useful objects at the forefront of his mind.
Knives, for example, had to be designed in such a way that they
were able to cut through something well - including enemy
throats. Over and above this, a design that was to be of use had
to be accurate - in the sense that it was in accord with scientific
facts. It had to look good - in the sense that it was able to
provide the person who used it with an experience. The
designer’s ideal was pragmatic - i.e. functional. Moral, indeed
political, considerations hardly came into it. Moral norms were
decided by the public - either in the form of a superhuman
authority, or by means of consensus, or both. And designers,
along with those who used products, were subject to the same
norms under threat of punishment - in this life or the next.

The question of the morality of things, of the moral and
political responsibility of the designer, has, however, taken on
a new significance (indeed an urgency) in the contemporary
situation. There are at least three reasons for this:

First, there is no such thing as a public laying down norms
any more. Even though there are still authorities (religious,
political and moral) just as there were before, their rules can
no longer claim people’s trust; their competence in respect to
industrial production is in doubt. Consequently, authorities
have less and less credibility, not least because the communica¬
tions revolution has destroyed the public sphere we had
known hitherto. Their competence is questioned since indus¬
trial production has become extremely complicated and
norms of any kind tend to be deceptively simple. Having thus
become incompetent, every authoritarian generalization of
norms tends to inhibit industrial progress or cause disorgani¬
zation more than it provides a direction for people to follow.

The only authority that seems to be more or less intact is
science. Of course, it always claims to be engaged in value-free
research, and as a result it does provide technical norms but
not moral norms.

Second, industrial production, including design, has devel¬
oped into a complex network that makes use of information
from various sources. The mass of information available to a
producer goes way beyond the capacity of individual memory.
Even if one uses artificial storage mechanisms, one is stuck
with the problem of deciding which information is to be
selected for further processing. Consequently, it has become
necessary to act in teams combining human and artificial
components; results cannot therefore be attributed to any
single author. The design process is organized on an extremely
co-operative basis. For this reason, no one person can be held
responsible for a product anymore. Even if there were authori¬
ties creating norms, nobody would feel personally bound to
them. The lack of moral responsibility that follows logically
from the production process must inevitably also come up
with morally objectionable products in the event of a failure
to agree on what sort of ethical code is to be followed for
design.

Third, in the past it was tacitly agreed that the moral
responsibility for a product lay with the person who used it. If
someone stabbed someone else with a knife, he carried sole
responsibility, not the knife’s designer. Here the production of
knives was a sort of pre-ethical, value-free activity. This is no
longer the case, however. Many industrial processes are carried
out by automated machines, and it would be absurd to hold
robots responsible for the use to which products are put.

Whom should one hold responsible for a robot killing
somebody? The person who constructed the robot, the one
who made the knife or the one who set up the computer
program? Would it not equally be possible to attribute moral
responsibility to an error in construction, programming or

production? And what about attributing moral responsibility
to the branch of industry that produced the robot? Or perhaps
the whole industrial complex, extending to the whole system
to which this complex belongs?

In other words: A situation in which designers do not
address themselves to these questions can lead to a total lack of
responsibility. This is not a new problem, of course. It became
terrifyingly apparent in 1945 when it was a question of deciding
who was to be held responsible for the crimes against human¬
ity committed by the Nazis. At the time of the Nuremberg
trials, a letter written by a German industrialist to a Nazi offi¬
cial was discovered. In it, the industrialist timidly begs to be
forgiven for having constructed his gas ovens badly: Instead of
killing thousands of people at one go, only hundreds were
being killed. The Nuremberg trials and, a bit later, the
Eichmann trial clearly demonstrated that a) there are no longer
norms that are applicable to industrial production; b) there is
no such thing as a single author of a crime; and c) responsibil¬
ity has been so watered down that in effect we find ourselves in
a situation of total irresponsibility towards acts resulting from
industrial production.

Recently, the Gulf War provided an even clearer illustration
of this kind of problem, though on a less absurdly inhuman
level than in the case of the Nazis. The death toll was in the
region of one Allied soldier to a thousand Iraqis. This statistic
was achieved by means of state-of-the-art industrial design.
Design that was impressive in its efficiency, scientific accuracy
and, no doubt, aesthetic achievement. Is talk of ethical or
moral (let alone political) responsibility of any relevance here?
Think of the image of a pilot leaving his helicopter after an air
attack and going immediately to talk to a television reporter.
He has still got his helmet on. When he turns towards the
reporter, the guns on board his helicopter are pointing in the
same direction. His helmet is synchronized with the guns; the
go-ahead for an attack can be given by the blink of an eye.

Now who is responsible for this post-industrial helicopter-
pilot complex, and who is responsible for what happens as a
result of such an interwoven network of relationships? Can
one imagine an authority capable of judging what happens -
would this authority be a judge, a priest, a national or interna¬
tional parliament, a committee of engineers or experts on the
analysis of complex systems?

If we do not manage - by going beyond ideology - to find a
way of approaching a solution to the ethical problems of
design, then Nazism, the Gulf War and similar events will go
down in history as merely the opening stages of a period of
destruction and self-destruction. The fact that we are begin¬
ning to wonder about such questions gives reason for hope.

Design as Theology

In the nineteenth century, people were of the opinion that
West is West, East is East, and never the twain shall meet. This
view was based on profound insight, since for the West the
most terrible thing is Death, and for the East the most terrible
thing is Life. In the West, one has to die (these are the wages of
sin), and in the East one has to be born over and over again
(this is punishment for crimes committed). ‘Salvation’ for the
West is the overcoming of Death; for the East it is the over¬
coming of rebirth. Christ promises eternal life, Buddha libera¬
tion from life. In other words: In the West, one does not want
to die but one has to, and in the East, one does not want to live
(because this is seen as suffering) but one has to be born again.
An unbridgeable gap appears to yawn between these two
worlds. But when one holds a piece of Japanese equipment
(for example, a pocket radio) in one’s hand, then one feels the
yawning gap beginning to close.

Nothing is easier than to trivialize this (up to now) unique
event. The pocket radio is a product of Western applied
science, and its design is Japanese. There have always been
things like this. For example, Chinese porcelain was produced
following English designs. Oriental cultural elements were
probably already known in the Roman Empire, and by the
same token Hellenistic ones were probably known in China.
Not to mention Mongol dragons on Gothic cathedrals and
gods’ helmets from the time of Alexander at Angkor Wat.
Design does not develop according to function but follows
traders in their ships or on Silk Roads. One does not have to
call on Christ or Buddha to understand the Japanese pocket
radio. One only needs to think of the opening up of Japanese
harbours by the American fleet or Japanese industrial espi¬
onage in Europe and America between the world wars. Then
again, as soon as one starts to trivialize the situation like this,

one feels the phenomenon one is trying to explain slipping
through one’s fingers. Is it that the Toyotas on German
Autobahns are to be likened not to Fiats but to the Golden
Horde?

The Japanese pocket radio does not force Western applied
science into an Oriental form; rather it is a synthesis within
which both overlap. This is, when one comes to think of it, an
extraordinary claim. Western science comes about thanks to
the detachment made possible by theory, as when one takes up
a critical and sceptical attitude towards the world of phenom¬
ena. The form of things Oriental comes about thanks to very
specific and concrete experience, causing the distinction
between the human being and the world to blur. The yawning
gulf that was mentioned before opens up between scientific
theories and the concrete experience of an inseparable unity.
Then again, has the pocket radio managed to synthesize both
of them? Has it managed to combine botany and ikebana,
ballistics and archery, chess and the Japanese game Go into a
new unity? Because the above argument leads to a claim that,
in the case of the pocket radio, Japanese design was not simply
imposed on a radio but arose out of it.

Perhaps one can approach this problem (a decisive one for
the future) by trying to set the Western concept of design
against Oriental notions. As far as we are concerned, design is
often seen as the imposition of a form onto a formless mass.
The form ( eideia ) is conceivable on the theoretical level: For
example, one conceives in theory that a triangle is a form the
sum of whose angles is 180 degrees. Now one takes what one
has conceived in theory, imposes it upon something formless,
and one has ‘designed’ (formed), for instance, a pyramid. Of
course, one has to take on board the fact that the sum of the
angles in something produced in this way is no longer exactly
180 degrees. No design can be ‘perfect’, can be completely iden¬
tical with its model as conceived in theory. This is our own
design problem, certainly not one as far as the Far East is

concerned. We can observe how forms such as written charac¬
ters or paper flowers or simply the form of the tea ceremony
arise in the hands of Oriental people. In this case, it is not a
matter of imposing an idea on something amorphous. It is
rather a matter of allowing a unifying form to arise out of
oneself and the surrounding world. Design then - in the Far
Eastern sense - is a kind of immersion in the Not-Self (for
example, in paper, the paint-brush or paint) which defines the
form of the Self in the first place (for example, in the form of a
written character).

Whereas in the West, therefore, design produces people
who engage with the world, in the East it is the way in which
people spring up out of the world so as to experience it. If one
takes the word aesthetic in its original sense (i.e. ‘open to expe¬
rience’), then in the East design is purely aesthetic.

Now it is not, of course, as if in the case of the pocket radio
the Japanese designer has arisen out of the world in some sort
of unio mystica with plastic material and copper wire. No
more than, in the case of a Western pocket radio, the designer
engages with the world from a theoretical perspective so as to
give it form. Rather, both designers, the Eastern and the
Western, are mindful, in the act of creation, of the market for,
and function of, the object they are creating. But one must not
be fooled by this apparent similarity. The Japanese designer
comes out of a cultural context in which life is characterized
by the Buddha - the ‘Enlightened One’ - and this can be seen
reflected in his design: the bonsai trees and sliding doors, the
sandals and the pocket radio, the Walkman and, in future,
electronic and genetic robots and artificial intelligence. The
design of all of these expresses the peculiar aesthetic quality of
a blending in with the environment, a disintegration of the
self. An eye trained in phenomenology would not be able to
avoid seeing this in a pocket radio, a Toyota and a camera any
more than it would in Japanese (and, for that matter, other
Oriental) food.

This is an extraordinary claim for the following reason:
Science and the technology based upon it could only arise on
Western soil. They presuppose the detachment made possible
by theory, but also the Jewish conviction that one must change
the world so as to change oneself. Science is basically a method
of discovering the Judeo-Christian God ‘behind phenomena’,
and technology a method of producing God’s kingdom on
earth. As soon as one translates science and technology into
Oriental design, they both have to change their nature.

This fateful change is already underway, even if we do not
always register the fact. What is produced by Japanese labora¬
tories is no longer the same sort of science as that which led to
the Industrial Revolution, as it expresses a totally different
‘spirit’. The industrial products made in Japan that are flooding
the world do not breathe the same atmosphere as that breathed
by the Industrial Revolution since the Enlightenment. And this
will become even more apparent when China starts to become
productively engaged in scientific and technological develop¬
ment. It is as though the motivation that originally created
science and technology has done a U-turn. One way of looking
at this fundamental U-turn is as follows:

The science we know takes place in the form of logical
discourse, and this discourse is alphanumerically (en)coded.

In other words, science describes and calculates nature accord¬
ing to the rules of linear writing and thought. The motivation
of science is to seize hold of nature so described and calcu¬
lated, in order to empower knowledge. In the Far East, there is
no code that could be structurally compared to the alphanu¬
meric. There, science and technology are only conceivable in
English and in our numbering system. But now the alphanu¬
meric code is being replaced by digital computer codes. These
new codes have more in common with Oriental codes (e.g.
ideograms) than with linear ones. So now science and technol¬
ogy are just as conceivable in the Far East as in the West. There
is now another motivation behind them.

Seen from the West, what is taking place can be interpreted
as a disintegration of the basic structures of Western culture.
Products flooding in from the East come designed in such a
way that, in the form of every one of them, we get a concrete
experience of the Oriental life-style. From the shape of the
Japanese pocket radio, we gain a concrete (‘aesthetic’) famil¬
iarity with the Buddhist or Taoist or Shinto approach to life.

We experience the extent to which our way of thinking, which
has led among other things to science and technology (but
also to other, more frightening things), is being absorbed into
the Oriental one. Much more than the various sects taking the
Orient as their model that have sprung up particularly in
America, it is the design of Oriental industrial products that is
pulling the ground of Judeo-Christianity from under our feet
and immersing us in the East. Seen from an Eastern perspec¬
tive, the same thing probably seems to be happening in
reverse. The advent of Western science and technology is no
doubt interpreted as a disintegration of the Oriental life-style,
and this becomes plain as soon as one compares the design of
pocket radios with that of a kimono or of samurai swords.

Seen from a ‘more objective’ perspective, it is perhaps a
blurring of East and West that one is talking about nowadays.
Perhaps this mutual subversion is expressed in the design of
post-industrial (‘post-modern’?) products. But the nineteenth
century was right after all in considering that a blending of
Buddha into Christ or vice versa was impossible. The God of
one is the Devil of the other. Perhaps a reduction to the lowest
common denominator is taking place, a mutual destruction of
values.

In this matter, it is necessary to put sincerity above a feeling
for justice that reduces everything to the same level. There are,
after all, only two peaks in human civilization: the Oriental
one and our own. All the others are either overlaps between
these two (India, for example) or the first steps in the direction
of forms that have never been developed before. If, as appears

to be the case, the translation of Western science and technol¬
ogy to the Far East leads to a blurring of the two cultures, it is
in fact ‘mass culture’ that one is talking about, a culture that
finds its aesthetic expression in trashy design. But the meeting
of East and West just getting underway can be seen in a differ¬
ent light. What if a new feeling for existence were to be finding
expression in the design of post-industrial products?

At the beginning of this essay, it was suggested that the
fundamental difference between East and West was their atti¬
tude to life and death. From the Western attitude there arose
Greek philosophy, Jewish prophesy and hence Christianity,
science and technology. From the Eastern attitude there arose
an aesthetic and pragmatic approach to life that we Westerners
have never been able to understand completely. Now, these two
mutually exclusive attitudes can, indeed must, blend into one
another. They have already produced various new codes
(computer codes) that bridge the gap. Out of their amalgama¬
tion are produced a science and technology that can no longer
be classified, their products being designed in a spirit that no
longer fits the old categories. Shouldn’t this sort of design
perhaps be subjected to a‘theological’ analysis to find out
whether its attitude to life and death is moving onto a new
plane? Is it that such design expresses a‘transcended’ Judeo-
Christianity and a ‘transcended’ Buddhism for which we still
lack words? This is a bold hypothesis. But whenever one takes a
Japanese pocket radio in one’s hand and looks closely into its
design, the hypothesis does not look all that speculative after
all; on the contrary, its time has come. To indicate as much has
been the aim of this essay, though admittedly, what is being
suggested must be taken as provisional. Its intention is to be an
essay- i.e. an attempt at a hypothesis.

Wittgenstein’s Architecture

The universe of texts can be seen as a landscape. In it one can
make out mountains and valleys, rivers and lakes, castles,
farmyards and inner-city slums. On the horizon of the scene
visualized in this way, the Bible and Homer appear as gigantic
ice-covered mountains. The vast, tranquil lake of Aristotle’s
texts, where fishermen idly throw their nets and philologists
row their boats, occupies a part of the valley bottom. There,
the tumbling waterfall of Nietzsche is captured by the broad
river of modern pragmatism. Towering above everything, the
Gothic cathedral of St Thomas Aquinas’s Summae dominates
the cathedral square of the city, in which the roofs and gables
of Baroque speculations jostle one another. In the suburbs of
this city, one catches sight of the Romantic, Realist and
Modernist housing-blocks and factories of more recent litera¬
ture; somewhat apart from all these stands a small, apparently
insignificant house resembling scaffolding more than a
finished building: Wittgenstein’s building.

This little house is called the Tractatus. This name isn’t the
product of a one-track mind. For when one enters the house,
one notices immediately that this is not a place that has lost
track of things. Quite the opposite: It is a place of mirror-
images. The house stands on six foundation pillars which
support one another by means of cross-beams organized in a
hierarchy. In the middle, however, there rises a seventh pillar
whose function it is to cut through the building and free it
from the ground. So the house with all its corners, angles and
joints is protected, armoured and impregnable. And yet, and
for that very reason, it is threatened with collapse and disap¬
pearance without trace - condemned in advance and from the
outset.

The building is set out: It consists of propositions. Every
proposition presupposes all the preceding ones and is itself the

7 6

presupposition of all the following propositions. Proposition
by proposition, anyone who enters progresses through the
prescribed rooms, and his step is supported by consistencies.
Suddenly, with one proposition, one single proposition, the
ground gives way beneath his feet. He falls head first into the
abyss.

Wittgenstein’s house is situated in a suburb of that city
whose cathedral square is dominated by the towers of Thomas
Aquinas’s cathedral. The small, modest pillars of Wittgenstein’s
house support one another according to the same logico-
philosophical method as the pillars of the cathedral support
one another. But there appears to be a world of difference
between the cathedral and the little house: The cathedral is a
ship pointing in the direction of heaven, and the little house is
a trap-door pointing in the direction of a bottomless abyss.

But be careful: May Thomas Aquinas not have been right in
saying after his revelation that everything he had written
before was like straw? May not the heaven above the cathedral
be the same black hole as the abyss beneath the little house?
May not Wittgenstein’s little house be the cathedral of today?
And those mirrors whose images simultaneously mirror one
another, may they not be our equivalent of stained-glass
windows?

The landscape portrayed in this essay, it goes without
saying, is a metaphor. Is it possible to identify it as Vienna?
And is it possible for anyone entering Wittgenstein’s little
house in that unlikely place to make out a hint of the
unsayable? What we cannot speak about we must pass over in
silence.

Bare Walls

We talk of bare walls, just as we talk of the bare body, as things
that should be covered up. It takes courage to show the body as
it is: naked. We are inescapably part of the Christian tradition.
And in this tradition, nakedness means nature. Nature exists
to be altered by Man, that ‘God-like spirit’. Nature is that which
is taken for granted and has to be transformed into something
man-made: into culture. In other words, nakedness belongs to
entropy and has to be covered up by the activity of the human
spirit working against entropy. Walls stand naked before us in
defiance of the human will to form a design. Standing out
against walls, Man identifies himself as a creature who opposes
the formless chaos represented by the world.

Yes, but are walls really something to be taken for granted?
Of course not. They are built by human beings, and we know
this not only from the ‘historical’ point of view (we know who
built them, how and why) but from the ‘structural’ point of
view as well (we know they have an un-natural structure).

This gives rise to both a historical and an existential ques¬
tion. The historical problem goes like this: For a caveman, cave
walls were taken for granted, and he opposed them by painting
on them and expressing his will in opposition to nature (an
expression of‘beauty’). Our walls are late and decadent forms
of cave walls. The existential problem is as follows: Although
our walls were made by human beings (by masons, architects
and those who impose their ideology on masons and archi¬
tects), they are nevertheless taken for granted as far as those
living between them are concerned. It is a mistake to say that
culture is made by human beings and is therefore the realm of
human freedom. For everyone living in a culture, it is some¬
thing taken for granted just as nature is. Therefore, walls are
taken for granted. They are taken for granted even by those
who build them.

7 »

Nevertheless, we must admit to a strange ontological
ambivalence on the part of walls: Seen from the inside, they
are taken for granted; seen from the outside, they are man¬
made. (This is a difference between the cavemen and us: A
caveman could not see his walls from the outside; he had no
‘philosophical distance’.) We can step out of our own four
walls and see not just the outside world but our own four walls
as well. We are creatures of reflection and speculation. We can
therefore do something the caveman could not do: develop a
philosophy of culture. And culture appears to us in the form of
a steadily growing collection of things that we place up against
the four walls of our dwelling to cover up their nakedness and
hide the fact that they are taken for granted. Sometimes, these
things representing culture cover up more than just the naked¬
ness of the walls. They cover cracks in the walls and conceal
the possible danger of the building collapsing and burying us
under the rubble.

This image of culture becomes even more plausible if we
imagine one of the four walls being knocked down and trans¬
formed into a window without any glass in it. The three
remaining walls then become like a stage on which the tragi¬
comedy is enacted - quite a valid historical image of culture:
Man as an actor on the stage. The valid historical thing about
this image is its representative (symbolic) nature and the fact
that it is a question of a historically finite process. Culture thus
appears as‘fiction’ (in the sense of fingere, ‘to form’,‘to
design’). The three remaining walls conceal the pathos with
which Man seeks to impose his will on nature, and they also
conceal (by reason of universal inertia) the possibility of his
own defeat - since even the three remaining walls will collapse
in the ‘end’.

Nevertheless, and despite the fact that we all know this,

Man will still go on filling the space between the walls with
things, as witnesses to his power of design. He will do this
simply because the walls exist and must not be left bare. And

whenever there are moments in history when there is a will to
reveal nakedness (moments of an inverted Puritanism that
insists on the beauty of nakedness and the functional purpose
of the walls), these moments are then the dialectical part of the
process in which Man covers up his walls. This process does
not aim to do away with the walls (that is impossible), but as
Living-between-Walls is part of the human condition, he
strives to make the best of them. Every cultural undertaking
thus becomes a ‘heroic commitment’ in the true sense of the
word, and art becomes a tragedy and agony in the sense it had
for the Greek theatre.

In short, seen from an aesthetic point of view, walls are the
borders of a stage on which the tragedy of the human striving
for beauty is enacted.

With As Many Holes As a Swiss Cheese

Houses are made up of a roof, walls with windows and doors,
and other parts that are not quite so important. The roof is the
important thing: ‘homeless’ and ‘without a roof over one’s head’
are synonyms. Roofs are devices to make us subservient: Under
them one can cower and hide from one’s lord (be he a God or
Nature). The German word for roof, Dach (like the cognate
English word thatch), c omes from the same root as the Greek
techne, accordingly, roof-tilers and thatchers are artists. They
draw the line between the province of the Laws and the private
space of the subservient slave. Under one’s own roof, the Laws
are only valid up to a point. The tree-tops served as a roof for
early hominids’ nests. We do not think that we ourselves are the
ones who project the Laws. We do not need any roofs.

Walls are there for us to defend ourselves against the outside
world, not against the world over our heads. The German word
for house walls, Mauern, like the French murs, comes from
munire. to protect oneself. They are munitions. They are made
up of two walls: The outside wall turns to face dangerous aliens
(lurking on the outside), would-be immigrants; the inside wall
turns inwards to the inmates of the house like a jailer responsi¬
ble for their security. In the case of walls without roofs (e.g.
the Berlin Wall and the Great Wall of China), this function
becomes clear: The outside is political, the inside wall secretive,
and the wall has to protect the secret place of the heart from
being visited by evil spirits. Anyone who can’t stand secretive¬
ness should go ahead and knock walls down.

But even secret-mongers and patriots have to knock holes
in walls. Windows and doors. So as to be able to look outside
and go out. Before the verb to show came to have the meaning
‘to display’, it was used in the sense of‘to see’ - i.e. looking out
from inside, for which the window provided the device. One
looked out from inside without getting wet at the same time.

The Greeks called this sort of seeing theoria: perception with¬
out danger and without experiencing anything. Now it is actu¬
ally becoming possible to push devices through the window
into the outside world to experience things in such a way that
one does not run any sort of danger whatsoever. The phenom¬
enological question raised by this is: Are experiments carried
out through the window (i.e. in theory) valid? Or does one
have to go out the door to experience things?

Doors are holes in walls for going in and out. One goes out
to experience the world, and there one loses oneself, and one
returns home in order to find oneself again, and in so doing
one loses the world that one set out to conquer. This back-and-
forth through the door Hegel calls the ‘unhappy consciousness’.
In addition, it can happen that on returning home one finds
the door locked. It is true that one has a bunch of keys in one’s
pocket (or one can decode the secret code), but the secret code
may have been re-coded in the meantime. Home and home¬
land are favourite places for con-tricks. Then one is stuck
outside in the rain, practically in the gutter. Doors are devices
that do not provide happiness, nor are they to be trusted.

In addition, the following objection can also be made to
windows and doors: One can look in through windows from
the outside and climb in through them, and the public sphere
can break into a private house through the door. One can of
course protect windows from spies and burglars by installing
shutters or protect the door from the police by building a
drawbridge, but then one lives in fear, stuck within one’s four
walls. There is not much future in such architecture.

Roofs, walls, windows and doors do not fulfil their function
anymore, and this explains why we are beginning to feel
homeless. As we can’t really go back to tents and caves (even if
some people try to), for better or worse we have to design a
new type of house.

In fact, we have already started to. Home-as-one’s-castle
with its roof, walls, windows and doors now only exists in fairy

tales. Material and immaterial cables have knocked as many
holes in it as in a Swiss cheese: On the roof there is the aerial,
telephone wire comes through the wall, the television takes the
place of the window, and the door is replaced by the garage
with the car. Home-as-one’s-castle has become a ruin with the
wind of communication blowing through the cracks in the
walls. It is a shoddy patchwork job. What is needed is a new
type of architecture, a new design.

Designers and architects must no longer think in terms of
geography but in terms of topology. Enough of the house as an
artificial cave; it is more a warping of the sphere of interper¬
sonal relations. Such a change in the way we think is not easy.
The change from thinking in terms of flat surfaces to thinking
in terms of the surface of a globe was an achievement for its
time. But thinking in terms of topology is made easier by the
use of synthesized images of mathematical equations. Thus, for
example, one no longer sees the earth as a geographical loca¬
tion in the solar system but as a warp in the gravitational field
of the sun. This is what the new type of house must look like: a
warp in the interpersonal sphere by which relationships are
‘attracted’. Such an attractive house would have to assemble
these relationships, process them in the form of information,
store them and pass them on. A creative house as the nucleus of
an interpersonal network.

Such a method of building a house using cable links is full
of dangers. For example, the cables can be connected up, not
to networks, but to the masses: something ‘fascistic’ rather
than ‘dialogic’. Like televisions, not like telephones. In such a
worst-case scenario, houses would be the cornerstones of an
unimaginable totalitarianism. Architects and designers must
provide a network of reversible cables. This is a task for tech¬
nology, and designers are up to it.

To be sure, such a method of building houses would
be a technological revolution that would go far beyond the
competence of architecture and design. (This is the case in all

technological revolutions, by the way.) Lacking roofs and
walls, such architecture standing wide open to the world (i.e.
made up entirely of reversible windows and doors) would alter
the nature of existence. People would have nowhere to cower
any more, nowhere to go to ground or take cover. All they
would be able to do would be to offer one another their hands.
They would no longer be subservient slaves; there would be no
lord over them anymore to hide from or in whom to seek
refuge. (Schiller is wrong when he claims that a good father
must be living above the millions of brothers.) And there
would no longer be any Nature threatening them and which
they had to dominate. On the other hand, these houses stand¬
ing open to one another would produce a hitherto unimagin¬
able wealth of projects: Connected up to the network, they
would be projectors of alternative worlds accessible to all
human beings.

Such a method of building houses would be a dangerous
adventure. Less dangerous, however, than hanging on in the
ruins of the houses of today. The earthquake that we are
witnessing forces us to embark on the adventure. Should it
meet with success (and that is not totally out of the question),
we would then be able to live again, process noise into infor¬
mation, experience something. If we do not embark on the
adventure, we are, for the foreseeable future, damned to
huddle between four walls under a roof full of holes in front of
our television screens or to drive around in our cars, experi¬
encing nothing.

The Non-Thing 1

Until recently, our environment consisted of things: houses
and furniture, machines and motor vehicles, clothing and
underwear, books and pictures, tins and cigarettes. There were
also people in our environment, but science had largely made
them into objects: Like all other things, they are measurable,
quantifiable and easily manipulated. In short, the environment
was the condition in which we existed. Finding our way
around it was the same thing as distinguishing ourselves from
artificial objects. No easy task. Is this ivy on the wall of my
house a natural thing because it is growing and because
botany, a branch of science, is concerned with it? Or is it an
artificial thing because my gardener planted it in keeping with
an aesthetic model? And is my house an artificial thing
because designing and building houses is an art, or is it natural
for people to live in houses just as it is for birds to live in nests?
Is there any sense at all in wanting to distinguish between
nature and culture when it comes to finding your way around
the world of things? Should one not resort to other ‘ontologi¬
cal’ criteria - for example, by distinguishing immovable from
movable things, apartments from appurtenances? This too
creates difficulties. A country would appear to be an immov¬
able thing, but Poland has moved further west. A bed would
appear to be movable, but my bed has moved less than Poland
has. Any catalogue of the world of things, whatever criteria are
used to set it up - e.g. ‘animate-inanimate’, ‘mine-yours’,
‘useful-useless’, ‘near-far’ - is bound to have grey areas and
gaps. It is no easy matter knowing your way around things.

And yet, as we are acknowledging with hindsight, it was
rather cosy living in a world of things. Of course, one did have
what could be called epistemological difficulties, but one knew
more or less what one needed to do in order to be able to live.
‘To live’ means to proceed towards death. On the way, one

came across things that blocked one’s path. These things called
‘problems’ had therefore to be removed. ‘To live’ then meant:
to resolve problems in order to be able to die. And one
resolved problems either by transforming intractable things
into manageable ones - this was called ‘production’ - or by
overcoming them - this was called ‘progress’. Until eventually,
one came up against problems that could not be transformed
or overcome. These were called ‘last things’, and one died of
them. This was the paradox of living surrounded by things:
One thought one had to resolve problems so as to clear the
way to death, so as to ‘escape from circumstances’, and it was
the unresolved problems one died of. This does not sound very
pleasant, but it is basically comforting. One knows what to
hold on to in life - i.e. things.

Unfortunately, this has changed. Non-things now flood our
environment from all directions, displacing things. These non-
things are called ‘information’. ‘What nonsense,’ one is tempted
to say. There has always been information, and, as for the
meaning of the word in-formation, it has to do with ‘form in’
things. All things contain information: books and pictures,
tins and cigarettes. One has only to read things, ‘decode’ them,
to bring the information into the open. It has always been like
that; there is nothing new in it.

This objection is totally without substance. The information
that now floods our environment displacing the things in it is
of a kind that has never existed before: It is immaterial infor¬
mation. The electronic pictures on the television screen, the
data stored in computers, all the reels of film and microfilm,
holograms and programs, are such ‘soft’ ware that any attempt
to grasp them is bound to fail. These non-things are, in the true
sense of the expression, ‘impossible to get hold of’. They are
only open to decoding. Of course, as with old-style informa¬
tion, they also appear to be inscribed within things: in cathode-
ray tubes, celluloid, micro-chips, laser beams. But although this
sounds ‘ontological’, it is an ‘existential’ illusion. The material

basis of new-style information is negligible from the existential
point of view. Evidence in support of this is the fact that hard¬
ware is getting cheaper and cheaper and software more and
more expensive. The vestiges of materiality still adhering to
these non-things can be discounted by looking at the new envi¬
ronment. The environment is becoming ever softer, more
nebulous, more ghostly, and to find one’s way around it one
has to take this spectral nature as a starting-point.

But it is not even necessary to be fully conscious of the new
nature of our environment. We are all imbued with it. Our
existential concerns are shifting before our very eyes from
things to information. We are less and less concerned with
possessing things and more and more concerned with
consuming information. Not just another piece of furniture or
article of clothing but another holiday trip, an even better
school for our children, another music festival - these are what
we want. Things start to recede into the background of our
area of concern. At the same time, a larger and larger section of
society is engaged in the production of information, of
‘services’, of management, of systems, and a smaller and
smaller section is involved in producing things. The working
classes, those producers of things, are becoming a minority,
and managers and apparatchiks, those producers of non-
things, form the majority. Bourgeois morality based on things:
The production, accumulation and consumption of things
give way to something new. Life in an environment that is
becoming immaterial takes on a new complexion.

One can object to this picture of change on the grounds
that it does not take into account the mountain of junk
accompanying the advent of non-things. This objection is
without foundation: The junk proves the demise of things.
What is happening is that we feed information into machines
so that they spew out such junk in huge quantities and for next
to no cost. This throw-away material, all those lighters, razors,
pens, plastic bottles, are not true things; one cannot hold on to

them. And just as we get better and better at learning how to
feed information into machines, all things will be transformed
into the same kind of junk, even houses and pictures. All
things will lose their value, and all values will be transformed
into information. ‘Revaluation of all values’. This is also by way
of a definition of the new imperialism: Humanity is becoming
dominated by those groups who have control over informa¬
tion, be it the construction of atomic power stations and
weapons, aeroplanes and motor vehicles, or genetic engineer¬
ing and management systems. Such groups sell this informa¬
tion at inflated prices to a dominated humanity.

That which is happening before our very eyes, this displace¬
ment of things to the outer limits of our concern and this focus
of our concerns on information - is without precedent in
history. So it is very unsettling. If we wish to find our way
around it, despite the lack of precedents, we must look for
some parallel. Otherwise, how are we supposed to try and
imagine how we shall have to live in such an immaterial world?
What will a human being be like who is not concerned with
things, but with information, symbols, codes and models?
There is one parallel: the first Industrial Revolution. At that
time, concerns shifted from animate nature, cows and horses,
farmers and artisans to things: machines, the products of
machines, the labouring masses and capital, and so arose the
‘modern’ world that was, until very recently, the norm. At that
time, one could claim with some justification that a farmer in
1750 bc had more in common with a farmer in ad 1750 than the
latter had with an industrial worker, albeit his son, in 1780.
Something similar is true again today. We are closer to a worker
or citizen of the time of the French Revolution than to our chil¬
dren - yes, those children playing with electronic gadgets. Of
course, this parallel may not make the current revolution any
less unsettling, but it may help us to get a hold on things.

We will in fact come to realize that our attempt to get hold
of things in life is not exactly the rational modus vivendi we

were inclined to think it was, but that our ‘objectivity’ is some¬
thing relatively recent. We will come to realize that one can
also live differently: perhaps better even. Besides, ‘modern’ life,
life surrounded by things, is not the absolute paradise our
ancestors perhaps thought it might be. Many non-Western
societies in the Third World have good reason to reject it. If
our children too are starting to reject it, this is not necessarily
cause for despair. On the contrary, we must try and imagine
this new life surrounded by non-things.

Admittedly, this is no easy task. This new human being in
the process of being born all around us and within us is in fact
without hands. He does not handle things anymore, so in his
case one cannot speak of actions anymore. Nor of practice,
nor of work for that matter. The only things left of his hands
are the tips of his fingers, which he uses to tap on keys so as to
play with symbols. The new human being is not a man of
action anymore but a player: homo ludens as opposed to homo
faber. Life is no longer a drama for him but a performance. It is
no longer a question of action but of sensation. The new
human being does not wish to do or to have but to experience.
He wishes to experience, to know and, above all, to enjoy. As
he is no longer concerned with things, he has no problems.
Instead, he has programs. And yet he is still a human being: He
will die and he knows it. We die of things like unresolved prob¬
lems; he will die of non-things like program errors. If we think
of him along these lines, he comes closer to us. The advent of
the non-thing in our environment is a radical change, but he
will not be able to alter the basic mode of existence, being
unto death. Whether death is seen as the last thing or as a
non-thing.

The Non-Thing 2

Since human beings have been human beings, they have been
handling their environment. It is the hand with its opposable
thumb that characterizes human existence in the world. This
hand characteristic of the human organism grasps things. The
world is grasped, by the hand, as being made up of things. And
not just grasped: The things grasped by the hand are possessed
so as to be transformed. The hand in-forms the things grasped
by it. Thus the human being is surrounded by two worlds: the
world of‘nature’ (of things that are to hand and to be grasped)
and the world of‘culture’ (that of handy, in-formed things).
Until quite recently, one was of the opinion that the history of
humankind is the process whereby the hand gradually trans¬
forms nature into culture. This opinion, this ‘belief in
progress’, now has to be abandoned. It is in fact becoming
more and more apparent that the hand does not leave in¬
formed things, as it were, alone but that it continues to wave
them about until the information contained within them is
worn down. The hand consumes culture and transforms it
into waste. The human being is not surrounded by two worlds,
then, but by three: of nature, of culture and of waste. This
waste is becoming more and more interesting: Whole branches
of knowledge such as ecology, archaeology, etymology,
psychoanalysis, are concerned with studying waste. And it
turns out that waste returns to nature. Human history, then, is
not a straight line leading from nature to culture. It is a circle
turning from nature to culture, from culture to waste, from
waste to nature and so on. A vicious circle.

To be able to break out of this circle, one would have to
have non-consumable, ‘memorable’ information at one’s
disposal. Information that the hand could not wave about. But
the hand waves all things about; it tries to grasp everything.
Non-consumable information must therefore not be stored in

things. A culture without things would have to be produced. If
this was successful, there would be no more forgetting; then
human history would in fact be a linear progression. An ever¬
growing memory. Today we are witnessing the attempt to
produce such a culture without things, such an ever-growing
memory. Computer memories are an example of this.

A computer memory is a non-thing. Similarly, electronic
images and holograms are non-things. These are non-things
simply because they cannot be held in the hand. These are non-
things because they are non-consumable information. It is true
that these non-things are for the moment trapped within things
like silicon chips, cathode-ray tubes or laser beams. But
Hermann Hesse’s Glass Bead Game and similar works of futur¬
ology make it at least possible to imagine the liberation of non-
things from things. The liberation of software from hardware.

In fact, we do not need to go in for futurological fantasizing:

The lack of solidity of the culture from which things are increas¬
ingly absent is already a daily experience. The things around us
are contracting (what is called‘miniaturization’) and are getting
cheaper and cheaper, and the non-things around us are expand¬
ing (what is called ‘information’). And these non-things are
ephemeral and eternal at the same time. They are not to hand,
and yet they are handy: They are memorable.

In such a situation, there is nothing for the hands to get up
to or do. As this situation is impossible to grab hold of, noth¬
ing in it is capable of being grasped, and nothing can be
handled. In it, the hand - the grasping and productive act of
handling - has become redundant. Whatever can still be
grasped and produced is done automatically by non-things, by
programs: by ‘artificial intelligences’ and robotic machines. In
such a situation, the human being has been emancipated from
grasping and productive work; he has become unemployed.
Unemployment today is not an ‘economic phenomenon’ but a
symptom of the redundancy of work in a situation without
things.

The hands have become redundant and can atrophy. This is
not true, however, of the fingertips. On the contrary: They
have become the most important organs of the body. Because
in the situation of being without things, it is a matter of
producing and benefiting from information without things.
The production of information is a game of permutations
using symbols. To benefit from information is to observe
symbols. In the situation of being without things, it is a matter
of playing with symbols and observing them. To program and
benefit from programs. And to play with symbols, to program,
one has to press keys. One has to do the same to observe
symbols, to benefit from programs. Keys are devices that
permutate symbols and make them perceptible: viz. the piano
and the typewriter. Fingertips are needed to press keys. The
human being in the future without things will exist by means
of his fingertips.

Hence one has to ask what happens existentially when I
press a key. What happens when I press a typewriter key, a
piano key, a button on a television set or on a telephone. What
happens when the President of the United States presses the
red button or the photographer the camera button. I choose a
key, I decide on a key. I decide on a particular letter of the
alphabet in the case of a typewriter, on a particular note in the
case of a piano, on a particular channel in the case of a televi¬
sion set, or on a particular telephone number. The President
decides on a war, the photographer on a picture. Fingertips are
organs of choice, of decision. The human being is emanci¬
pated from work in order to be able to choose and decide. The
situation of being unemployed and without things makes his
freedom of choice and freedom of decision possible.

This freedom of fingertips without hands is rather unset¬
tling, however. If I hold a revolver against my temple and pull
the trigger, I have decided to take my own life. This would
appear to be the height of freedom: I am able to free myself
from any predicament by pulling the trigger. But in reality,

with this pulling of the trigger I set in motion a process that is
pre-programmed in the revolver. I have not, as it were, made a
‘free’ decision, but I have made a decision within the limits of
the revolver program. And the typewriter program, the piano
program, the television program, the telephone program, the
American administrative program, the program of the
camera. The freedom of decision of pressing a key with one’s
fingertips turns out to be a programmed freedom. A choice of
prescribed possibilities. I choose according to the regulations
(outlined in the manual).

It looks, accordingly, as though the society of the future
without things would be split into two classes: those program¬
ming and those being programmed. Into a class of those who
produce programs and a class of those who behave according
to programs. Into a class of players and a class of puppets. This
is to look at things from too optimistic a point of view.

Because what those programming do when they press keys in
order to play with symbols and produce information is the
same movement of the fingertips as the one carried out by
those being programmed. They too decide within a program
that could be called the ‘metaprogram’. And the players with
the metaprogram in turn press the keys of a ‘metametapro¬
gram’. And this regression from meta- to meta-, from the
programmers of programmers of programmers, proves to be
infinite. No: The society of the future without things will be
classless, a society of programmers who are programmed.
This, then, is the freedom of decision made available to us by
the emancipation from work. Programmed totalitarianism.

Mind you, an extremely satisfactory totalitarianism. Since
the programs are patently getting better and better. That
means that they contain astronomical numbers of possibilities
to choose between. Numbers that go way beyond the human
capacity for making decisions. So that I never, while making
decisions, pressing keys, come to the limits of the program.
The keys at my disposal are so numerous that my fingertips

can never touch all of them. Hence I get the impression that I
am making completely free decisions. The totalitarianism
doing the programming, once it has realized itself, will no
longer be identifiable by those participating in it: It will be
invisible to them. It is visible only in the embryonic state it is
in today. We are perhaps the last generation to be able to see
the way things are going.

We can see this because for the time being we still have
hands with which we can grasp things so as to be able to
handle them. Hence we can see the approaching totalitarian¬
ism doing the programming for what it is: a non-thing, since
we can’t grasp it. Perhaps, however, this inability to grasp the
state of things shows how ‘outdated’ we are? For, after all, is not
a society emancipated from work, believing that it can make
free decisions, the kind of utopia that has always beckoned to
humanity? Perhaps we are approaching the fulfilment of the
ages? In order to be able to judge this, one would have to make
a closer analysis of the term program, this key term of today
and tomorrow.

Carpets

The cave, the womb of the mountains, is our dwelling.

However tall, however functional, however open they may be,
our buildings are, and remain in spite of everything, imita¬
tions of caves. The more comfortable our rooms, the more
similar they are to caves. Our troglodytism is confirmed on the
one hand by history and on the other by depth-psycholcgy. Is
the cave really the original habitat of human beings? The
answer depends on the meaning we give to the word origin.

The caveman is a descendant of those who lived in nests. The
cave is only a stage on the journey from the nest towards the
coming into being of humanity. Because‘origin’ means some¬
thing different in the case of human beings than in the case of
horses, for example. There is in fact an original horse,
Eohippus, but no truly original human being. Neither a nest
(tent) nor a cave (house) is a natural human dwelling. Nothing
human is natural. That which is natural about us is inhuman.
Nevertheless: A nest and a cave, even if they are human, are
opposites.

The dialectic between nest and cave, between steppe and
river, between herdsman and farmer, between tent and house,
is at issue here. In other words, what is at issue is the carpet.
The carpet is to the culture of the tent what architecture is to
the culture of the house. But it has flown out of the tent across
the steppe and in through an open window of our dwellings.
Now our floors have become the base for carpets. And carpets
have turned into pretexts.

The first carpets known to us appear in Egypt in the
sixteenth century bc as a contribution by the plains of Asia to
the marvellous architecture of the river. Carpets triumph on
the banks of the great rivers of China and India, brought from
Mongolia by Genghis Khan and Kublai Khan. The greater
Persian empire of Tamerlane can be seen as a synthesis

between the land of Two Rivers, the steppes of Central Asia
and the Pamirs. A synthesis given insufficient attention in our
philosophy of history. The wonderful Peruvian carpets are
never mentioned in it because, like everything pre-Columbian,
they introduce confusion into our categories.

The Gothic art of carpet-making is a distant rumbling of
the desert storm, originating in the Russian steppes and the
Sahara, that threatens feudal castles, projecting its shadows
onto their walls. The Gobelin tapestries of the eighteenth
century slipped through the gaps in the ruinous castles of the
West as messengers from Persia and China. As the last
remnants of the bold blast across tundra and taiga, they now
whisper timidly on the Rococo walls of a doomed French aris¬
tocracy. And if it is correct, if all our carpets are raging storms
that have slipped through gaps in the walls to whisper around
us, how do we explain the renaissance in carpets that we see in
so-called art exhibitions? Because if this is correct, then surely
the carpets are not just messengers, but heralds of a storm.
Egyptian carpets bear witness not only to the whirlwinds of
Sinai but also to Akhenaten. Gothic carpets bear witness not
only to the Seljuk hordes but also to Simone Martini and even
to Luther. The Gobelin tapestries witness not only the Thirty
Years’ War between the faiths but also the French Revolution
and the Industrial Revolution. What are the carpets of today
testament to? What storms do they bring and project against
our walls to herald what coming whirlwind?

The answer is concealed within the carpets themselves. They
are weavings whose weft conceals and covers up the warp. In a
well-knotted woollen carpet, the fact that its warp is nothing
but ordinary string is concealed by means of high-quality
knots in the wool. The attitude of one knotting a carpet is the
opposite of that of a weaver of cloth. Our clothes are results of
a weft that does not deny the warp but raises it to the surface.
Carpets, on the other hand, are the results of a knotting that
denies and conceals its own warp. This description of the

techniques of weaving and of knotting is intended to express
the conspiratorial, even deceitful, nature of the affair. Knotting
carpets is a campaign on the part of the surface against the
warp, against its own base. That is why the carpet-maker has
recourse to designs that have been worked out exactly in
advance and that are fully aware of the fact that they are only
pretexts. Carpet patterns that are laid down in precise detail on
paper and other disposable material, and that are followed in
the course of knotting carpets, are works of art intended to be
thrown away. There can be no spontaneous movements in
making carpets. Every single knot has been thought out in
advance. Knotting itself is not a fluid process but a jerky one,
every leap of which is prescribed within a provisional mosaic.
Thus, for example, green, then yellow, then red and then blue
knots are knotted onto the warp in that order, and the
prescribed form only becomes visible after completion of the
process of leaps. The static impression that carpets give is a
deception: It is the result of a leaping, seemingly random tech¬
nique based in turn on a static design.

The attempt to put ourselves into the shoes of a carpet
weaver is destined to fail. What he does is recommended by
psychologists today as psychotherapy, but the recommenda¬
tion is questionable. It is true that the carpet weaver appears to
manipulate woollen yarn and styles of weaving with his
fingers, but he does so in a paradoxical way. He engages with
the material by following a design that is prescribed for him,
making this design appear so as to cover up the material. The
carpet weaver does not aim to reveal what he has done but to
conceal it. He aims at an appearance, and that means not just
beauty but deceit. He aims to conceal the truth by means of
beauty. He is committed to presenting Schopenhauer’s world
as representation as opposed to that philosopher’s world as
will. In short, to hanging the carpet so as to cover the wall.

This investigation of the carpet can produce an answer to
the question ‘Whence does the wind blow it to us, and whither

is it blowing us?’ It is a cold wind blowing towards us from
those regions where the truth was questioned. And it is blow¬
ing towards those realms where beauty and appearance
conceal the fact that we have lost the truth. Carpets are hung
on walls so as to conceal cracks in the wall. This is not the
worst way of describing the situation of culture today.

Pots

And the Lord spake: ‘Like a potter’s vessels shall the peoples be
broken to pieces.’ The intention of this essay is to interpret
this ominous prophecy. It can be interpreted because it says
many things. Unambiguous statements cannot be; they are
not open to interpretation. The sentence to be interpreted is
biblical, the Bible is open to multiple interpretations, and this
is what theologians live off. Hence this essay belongs to a long
tradition, but it is not necessarily meant to be read in the
spirit of theological disputes.

There is an obvious interpretation for the sentence quoted:
Each one of us has broken a pot at least once, but not one of us
has ever broken a people. For the Lord, however, peoples are
what pots are for us, and He threatens to demonstrate this.

The interpretation I shall attempt here will represent a totally
different point of view. It will start from the premise that, in
the sight of the Lord, pots are something different from what
cooks consider them to be. In fact, in the sight of the Lord pots
resemble more those forms that the Ancients referred to as
‘immutable Ideas’. This is the starting-point for bringing the
following ominous prophecy to life: ‘You along with all your
allegedly immutable Ideas shall be broken to pieces.’

Pots are considered to be empty forms. They are that. It is
not a matter here of reducing a difficult subject to something
as simple as a pot. Quite the contrary: It is a matter here of
looking at ‘pure form’ phenomenologically; this, then, is to
look at it as a pot. In other words: The question of what form
is is not being simplified here, but the question of what a pot is
is getting more and more complicated. A pot is a vessel, a tool
to be grasped and held. It is an epistemological (phenomeno¬
logical) tool. For example: I take hold of an empty pot and
hold it under the water fountain. By doing this, I have given
the pot content and the water form, and the water now

in-formed by the pot is included in the pot instead of flowing
amorphously. This is a banal fact, but in fact no epistemologi¬
cal theory, and no theory of information, has so far come to
terms with it.

Here is one example of the difficulties arising from this: It is
well-known that de Gaulle had ‘une certaine idee de la France’,
even if he unfortunately left open the question of what his idea
of France was. Did the General perhaps go into a potter’s
studio and look around until he found a pot into which he
could pour France? Or did he buy a particularly beautiful pot
and then try to pour France carefully into it? Or, on the other
hand, did he shape a pot himself and then hold it under the
French fountain so as to catch France?

These are unsettling questions, as they concern not only the
General but the whole proud edifice of science. What am I
doing when I formulate the laws of nature mathematically
(create for myself‘une certaine idee’ of natural phenomena)?
Do I look among the available algorithms until I find one
into which the phenomenon fits? Or do I choose a particularly
beautiful one (for example, Einstein’s equation) and then care¬
fully try to pour phenomena into it? Or do I cobble an equa¬
tion together and then go fishing for phenomena with it? The
whole gigantic crystal palace of algorithms and theorems that
we call science stands on pillars built of answers to such ques¬
tions. And these pillars are shaky. The Lord’s threat to break
the peoples like a potter’s vessels takes on a new significance.

Perhaps a consideration of the production of a pot can help
here? A pot is a hollow space, and this sounds like something
negative. A hollow space arises when something is taken out of
a full one, is abstracted. With the help of a shovel, for example.
A pit is such a hollow space. Pots too can be made in this way,
for example by scooping out a ball of clay with the thumb. But
pottery was probably invented in quite a different way. At first,
one most likely clasped the fingers of both hands together so
as to make a hollow space to catch drinking water. Then,

roo

instead of fingers, one intertwined twigs - hence the origin of
baskets (and weaving in general). As, however, baskets cannot
hold liquid, one lined them with clay. Finally, people burnt
these waterproof baskets either by chance or intentionally (we
know how much chance and intention condition one
another), and in this way the beautiful original pots with a
black geometric pattern on a red background (the traces of the
burnt twigs) were produced.

This diversion into the technology of ceramics has not been
all that productive. It has produced the result that empty pots,
pure Ideas, pure forms, can be abstractions as well as inten¬
tionally produced, interwoven constructs. For someone who
thinks formally (a mathematician, for example), this does not
make any clearer what he is actually involved in. Whether it is
a matter of weaving forms to catch phenomena, or of abstract¬
ing forms from phenomena, or even of playing with empty
forms (like soap-bubbles). One thing is clear about this,
however: Whether woven or hollowed out, empty vessels can
never be broken. There is nothing about them that can be
broken. Take the empty vessel: T +1 = 2 ’. Irrespective of
whether it is a woven construct to catch countable things or an
abstraction made out of counted things, it is without time and
space. There is no point in asking it whether it is also true at
4:00 p.m. in Vladivostok. This is how pots must appear in the
sight of the Lord. And they shall in any case be broken into
pieces by Flim.

If one looks at the world from a potter’s point of view, one
sees behind all the phenomena and throughout all the
phenomena the pots that hold and in-form these phenomena.
Behind the apple the sphere, behind the tree-trunk the cylin¬
der, behind the female body several geometric figures, and,
recently, behind apparently formless, chaotic phenomena
(such as clouds and rocks) so-called ‘fractal’ forms. This
potter’s way of seeing, this X-ray vision, for which phenomena
are fleeting veils concealing eternal forms, is equivalent to a

101

theoretical view. And this view has in our day developed a new
pottery technology, an electronic ceramics. We have pieces of
equipment that display empty, but coloured, so-called artifi¬
cial images made of algorithms on computer screens. Anyone
looking at such images has in front of them the empty,
unbreakable vessels hiding behind phenomena.

If Pythagoras could see the same empty form behind the
musical octave and behind the triangle, then this was a mysti¬
cal view. If Plato saw the eternal Forms of beauty and good¬
ness in theory through phenomena and retrieved them from
amnesia, then this was an act of illumination. Yes, even
Galileo, when he recognized the simple formula of free fall
behind the formless movements of heavy bodies, and those
others who were able to make out the relatively simple chemi¬
cal formulae from the chaotic mass of materials, they all still
thought they had partly uncovered the Lord’s building plan
behind phenomena. But what about those who sit at comput¬
ers, playfully displaying empty forms on their screens and then
waiting until others fill these empty vessels with contents? And
what about those who design so-called ‘virtual spaces’ in order
to create alternative worlds out of them? They shall be broken
by the Lord along with their pots.

The interpretation of the prophecy being offered here is the
following: The peoples of the computer, these producers of
pots, shall be broken along with their empty vessels. This may
not sound very biblical, but it is biblical enough to give one the
creeps and should be mentioned in hushed tones at all confer¬
ences on things like ‘Digital Imaging’, ‘Cyberspace’ and
‘Artificial Simulation and Holography’. Interpreted in this way,
the prophecy, as with this entire essay on pots, is talking about
hollowness. Empty pots are hollow vessels. Eternal Ideas are
pure, hollow thoughts. Mathematical formulae are hollow
propositions without content. The purest of all Ideas, the
highest of all Forms, is the Godhead. Because pure Ideas are
hollow, they are unbreakably eternal. The Lord is eternal. And

102

this is what the computer people, these potters of form, are
beginning to see. They are acting like the Lord (sicut Deus)
when they design empty forms, fill them with possibilities and
thus create alternative worlds. They shall be broken by the
Lord.

By using the word hollow, one gets to the root of things.
From ‘hollow’ there come ‘Hale’ and ‘Hell’, as one can see from
the English ‘whole’ and ‘hole’. By using the word hollow, you
are talking of the Whole. For quite a long time, science, by
thinking formally, has been disclosing what is behind
phenomena, and it sees the hollowness (the curved space of
mutually intersecting fields of possibility) behind them. But
only recently have we begun to compute alternative contents
out of this hollowness. Only recently have we begun to learn
what pottery is all about: about producing empty forms in
order to in-form what is amorphous. About what the Lord
was doing on the first day of Creation. This is the real Big
Bang: that we have finally learnt how to make pots. And the
prophecy says: We shall be broken by the Lord along with our
pots, before we are able to do it as well as, or even better than,
Him.

This is how it is with interpretations. They are put forward
in order to be falsified - i.e. in order to provoke new, equally
falsifiable interpretations. This final statement can be read as a
prayer in view of the ominous prophecy that has been the
subject of this interpretation.

103

Shamans and Dancers with Masks

If one feeds the equations that science uses as a means of
expression into a computer, then the scientific image of the
world will appear on the screen. In fact, this will be in the
shape of a network of intersecting and overlapping connec¬
tions. In some places, the connections will condense and form
pockets. These troughs within the fields of the network are
called ‘matter’, while the connections forming them are called
‘energy’. If one ‘animates’ this computer image (makes it into a
film), it is possible to observe the pockets bulging out of the
networks of connections becoming more and more complex
in various places, then levelling out again and finally disap¬
pearing without trace into the network. The ‘happy ending’ of
the film consists of a network of connections extending amor¬
phously in all directions. This can be called ‘heat death’. One of
these troughs can be identified as ‘our sun’. In this valley, one
recognizes a sub-valley as representing ‘our earth’. If one takes
a closer look at this sub-valley, one can make out a large
number of tiny pockets: the biomass enveloping the earth. If
one directs one’s attention towards these splashes, we ourselves
become visible among the small, fleeting wavelets.

If we recognize ourselves in this way as temporary pockets
of force fields intersecting one another, then the whole of
traditional anthropology goes out of the window. In this case,
we are in effect knots of relations (connections) without any
core (any ‘spirit’, any T, any ‘self’, indeed without anything
at all to ‘identify’ ourselves by). If we unravel the knots of
relations that we are made up of, then there is nothing left to
hold on to. To put it another way: The ‘I’ is then that abstract
point at which concrete relations intersect and from which
concrete relations begin. We can then of course ‘identify’
ourselves with these knots of relations within ourselves:
for example, as a heavy body (nodal intersection in the

104

electromagnetic and gravitational fields), and as an organism
(nodal intersection in the genetic and ecological fields), and as
a ‘psyche’ (nodal intersection in the collective psychological
field), and as a‘person’ (nodal intersection in the mutually
intersecting social and inter-subjective fields). Instead of a
‘person’, one can also talk of a ‘mask’. What was formerly called
‘identification of the self’ can now be better identified by
reference to a mask (or to several interchangeable and super-
imposable masks).

Thus the term mask is returned to its original existential
meaning. One is what one is only by wearing (dancing in) a
particular mask, by the other members of the tribe recogniz¬
ing the mask and giving it its due. Originally, there were rela¬
tively few masks: those belonging to the shaman, the hunter,
the homosexual. Later on, masks became more numerous;
today they can be worn on top of one another. One can, for
example, dance as a bank manager and wear underneath one’s
mask that of a connoisseur of art, a bridge player and a father.
If one peels off one mask after another, then nothing is left at
the end (just like an onion). Existential analysis puts it thus:
The T is that which one says ‘you’ to.

If one sees society (the field of inter-subjective relations)
in this way - as an organization hiring out masks - then it
represents a network within which physical, biological,
psychological (and other) nodes are captured in the shape of
masks so as to be condensed into ‘persons’. It is, then, a ques¬
tion of producing these masks and applying them to the
multitude of relations in the network. Here the design of
masks actually becomes a political matter. This is clear in the
case of an Amazonian tribe: How is the design of the shaman’s
mask produced, and in what way is the mask applied to the
young man approaching puberty so that he is recognized by
everybody as a shaman and may identify himself as such? In a
society as complex as so-called ‘post-industrial’ ones, this
process is less apparent. It is, however, simple enough to

105

formulate this question so that most political categories are
plunged into total confusion.

It is not very likely that one will get much of an answer from
the Indians of the Amazon if one asks them about this. They
will attribute the design of a mask to superhuman powers (e.g.
an ancestor in the form of a leopard) and will explain its appli¬
cation by reference to a sacred tradition. This is an ideology,
one no less credible than our own ideologies but one that is
nevertheless alien to us. Our own ideologies (particularly the
Judeo-Christian and Humanistic ones) presuppose a core of
T that insinuates itself into the available masks and conceals
itself within them, and this makes it more difficult to under¬
stand the design of the mask than invoking an ancestor in the
form of a leopard does. Hence there is nothing left for it but to
attempt to step back a little from the field of inter-subjective
relations and look at masks from the outside - an impossible
task, for, without a mask, ‘we’ do not exist and are therefore not
in a position to recognize masks. (This used to be referred to as
the ‘dialectic of the unhappy consciousness’.)

There is, however, one thing we can say: As ladles that are, as
it were, plunged into the stew of relations so as to serve up
persons, masks themselves somehow emerged from the stew;
they are themselves inter-subjective forms. (The bank
manager’s mask has not floated down to society from some
heaven of a higher vocation or profession; vocation and profes¬
sion follow from the mask.) Thus the question of the design of
masks is an inter-subjective issue. This means: That which I
am, I only became through a collective ‘dialogue’. The conclu¬
sion to be drawn from this is: The ‘I’ is not only the wearer of a
mask but also a designer of masks for others. Thus I ‘realize’
myself not only whenever I dance in masks, but equally when¬
ever I, together with others, design masks for others. The ‘I’ is
not only that which one says ‘you’ to, but also that which says
‘you’. Of course, I can only design masks while wearing a mask.
This is not a satisfactory answer to the question of the design of

106

masks, but at best the starting-point for further questioning. It
is only this process of asking questions that differentiates us
from the Indians (including those who dance around us or
who get their masks from watching television). Design means,
among other things, fate. This process of asking questions is
the collective attempt to seize hold of fate and, collectively, to
shape it.

107

The Submarine

If Modernity represents the shattering, fragmentation and
breaking up of the medieval way of thinking by means of
which the Catholic Church pointed minds towards the sign of
things to come, then the years beginning with the Industrial
and French revolutions and ending with the Submarine point
towards a reuniting of the human intellect under the sign of
solipsism. Based on what we have inherited in the way of the
documentary evidence and archaeological remains from that
eventful period, plagued as it was by wars, I shall attempt to
illustrate which areas of science, philosophy, art and religion
were the chief influences that led inevitably to the creation of
the Submarine. The physical sciences dissolved matter and
energy into a fog of mathematical and logical symbols; the
biological sciences reduced life and its manifestations to a mass
of abstract principles; the social sciences identified society as
an organization of laws that can be expressed simply in terms
of statistical mathematics. Religions identified God as an
abstract idea and the Devil as at best an allegory, if not a myth.
The arts became more and more abstract; they presented and
represented nothing, they worked in a vacuum. Philosophy
abandoned the Ding an sich, and thus the search to discover the
way things really are, and limited itself to formal statements of
pure logic, pure mathematics and pure grammar or to discus¬
sion about Existence, to the exclusion of Being as such. In other
words: The sense of reality disappeared from all areas of intel¬
lectual activity; the world turned into a dream, the dream of an
ideal world (at the beginning of the nineteenth century) being
distorted into a nightmare (around the middle of the twenti¬
eth). The world turned into a dream scenario, but this was not
accompanied by activity trailing off into resignation; on the
contrary, there has not been a period that has seen so much
feverish activity, fighting, painting, writing or thinking.

108

Humanity did not resemble so much a peaceful dreamer as
someone tossing and turning, their sleep disturbed by bad
dreams. Around the middle of the twentieth century, they were
rudely awakened from their troubled sleep, or - to put it
another way - their dream became real. I only want to talk
about the outward form of this awakening; we shall leave until
later an account of its significance and consequences.

Research in physics in that period managed to prove the
fundamental unity of matter and energy in a purely mathe¬
matical way and without the need for any deeper insight or
display of mysticism. The consequence of this, it goes without
saying, was that unlimited amounts of energy suddenly
became available, and unlimited amounts of matter offered
themselves for destruction. For the fact that the same discov¬
ery made it possible to condense matter from energy - thus
not only to destroy it but to build it up as well - is a much later
development. There was only one uncertain limitation upon
this limitless ability to destroy: the high financial cost of
launching destruction. This at first precluded the possibility of
any one individual annihilating the world; that remained the
prerogative of those governments that had the necessary funds
available. Over the course of time, however, it became more
and more apparent that the cost of destroying the world was
going to drop considerably; in other words, the list of potential
world-destroyers was broadening to include more and more
governments, economically powerful institutions such as large
companies and banks, and, in the end, individuals. There were
no moral barriers impeding this development (after all, if the
world was a dream, thus ethically neutral, one was free to go
ahead and destroy it), and it must have seemed to people in
the middle of the twentieth century that the eventual destruc¬
tion of the world of things was only a question of time, in fact
a period to be measured in years rather than decades. This is
the period that saw the establishment of that unique phenom¬
enon that we have come to call the ‘Submarine’.

109

The correspondence between scientists and philosophers,
artists and theologians, who created this Noah’s Ark to escape
the Flood has survived in part. To illustrate the prevailing
intellectual climate of the times, I quote from one of those
historic letters. ‘I am aware’, it says,

that my training as a chemist does not qualify me in the
slightest to be a saviour of humanity. I am myself unsure
about the motives inducing me to participate in our
insane experiment to stand out against an inescapable
development. The human race appears to be condemned
to destruction as a result of their mistakes and wrong¬
doings; and it sometimes seems to me that our attempt
to suspend this sentence is highly sinful.

I could go on to give many other examples, but I think that I
have provided adequate evidence of the yawning gulf between
logic and ethics, knowledge and belief, at that time, and of the
despair that led to such a gulf. What strikes me as one of the
greatest achievements of those seventeen men and women
who gave up human society in order to save it is that they
united knowledge and belief once again in their own persons
and thus found their way back to reality.

The external circumstances are so well known that I need
only mention them briefly: Seventeen prominent men and
women from the worlds of science, art and religion misappro¬
priated public funds, putting them in a position to build what
was for the time a gigantic submarine or, rather, to build it in
separate parts and assemble it in an abandoned shipyard in
Norway. This submarine made them materially independent
thanks to a nuclear reactor that provided an unlimited supply
of energy, and biologically independent thanks to a laboratory
based on seaweed that provided an unlimited supply of food,
and intellectually independent thanks to radio and television
sets that guaranteed permanent intellectual contact with the

rest of humanity. In this submarine, they installed equipment
that is best thought of under the common heading ‘weapons
representing a material and intellectual threat to, and thus a
means of dominating, humanity’. And they surrounded the
vessel with armour made out of negative material which they
believed to be completely impenetrable. For reasons of greater
security, they anchored this craft at the bottom of the Pacific
Ocean in the vicinity of the Philippines with the intention of
using their position there to force humanity into military and
intellectual disarmament. It is one of the most tragic jokes in
history that the failure of this project and the destruction of
these people was precisely the thing that led to its successful
outcome, making them as it were the saviours of humanity in
reverse. We know that all they succeeded in doing was to cause
the world powers to unite against them and to push humanity
not just onto military alert but into a moral panic as well. A
new peace resulted from this cosmic push. You can, if you like,
draw parallels between this event and what happened at
Golgotha, but in the present case I have decided to keep to the
facts just as they stand.

I will not go into the problems that stood in the way of the
construction and equipping of the submarine. They were
solved and so are not a problem for us anymore. I shall,
however, touch on the problems that these people proposed to
solve by means of their bid to dominate the world and that led
to their downfall, as it was bound to do. They are eternal prob¬
lems which probably do not admit of any solution, and, seen in
this light, the submarine was only one of the innumerable
experiments to bring about utopia. But the way in which the
seventeen set the problems out and attempted to solve them
shows these people to be figures of considerable relevance who
are still the subject of argument even after so many centuries of
human experience. Also, what makes this whole complex of
questions so fascinating is the fact that all the material power in
the world was for a time concentrated in the submarine, and

111

thus from the point of view of power politics nothing stood in
the way of the proposed solutions being put into practice.

Dominating the material world proved to be the least of the
problems to be overcome, and the task of those among the
seventeen who were physicists and chemists very soon became
a subsidiary one, as they had fulfilled their function. By means
of rays that could be controlled very precisely, the submarine
was able to threaten any human being anywhere in the world
with instant death, and thus permanently terrorize every single
individual without causing a general state of terror throughout
humanity. In this way, the submarine achieved the total
compliance of any person who was singled out and was only
required to do any actual killing in the first few days, when it
was a matter of proving the effectiveness of the rays. From this
period right up until the general uprising of humanity, the
domination of the earth by the submarine was completely
uncontested, and the burden of governing humanity rested on
the shoulders of those among the seventeen who were national
economists, ethnologists, biologists, philosophers, theologians
and artists. The records of proceedings that were probably
made during sittings of the all-powerful committee were
unfortunately lost during the sinking of the vessel, so we have
no information as to the arguments and disagreements that no
doubt took place in the submarine, and the submarine comes
across as a collective super-brain, as an absolute ruler with his
own thoughts and desires. The first proclamation to humanity
decreed by the submarine after the seizure of power and
carried by all the radio stations on earth in all languages gives
some idea of where this brain stood on things. It read as
follows:

In the cause of maintaining the earth as an inhabitable
place for human beings, we have taken over the legislative
and executive powers of the whole of humanity. In the
exercise of this power, we shall be guided by the following

112

principles. First, the human being is made in the unique
image of God. Second, the fact that people come together
in groups conditioned by biology or economics has to be
taken into account by the administration, but must not
overshadow the fundamental uniqueness of the individ¬
ual human being. Third, the administration has to build
up and maintain the economic, legal, biological and
educational principles by which the intellectual, moral
and artistic approach of every individual human being to
their god can be developed. However, it must not itself
influence the particular approach.

As is well known, decrees then follow which dissolve all
armies, consign all warships and fighter planes to destruction,
destroy all nuclear weapons and provisionally maintain all the
laws and regulations of the previous system of government.

As I indicated, this first declaration illustrates the funda¬
mental attitude of the submarine towards the problem of
world domination and already provides a hint as to the tragic
ending of this reign of terror. It was obvious that all tendencies
would unite against such an assault on the human spirit. The
materialists - whether socialist or liberal - were up in arms
straightaway at the first statement of the proclamation. The
second point turned all the nationalists, blood-and-soil
mystics and racial theorists into sworn enemies, not to
mention all syndicalists, leaders of organizations for Christian
workers, Moslem liberationists and anti-colonial Blacks. The
first statement of the third point set all free-thinkers, indepen¬
dent philosophers and artists against one another; the second
statement of the same point turned all the religions against
one another. This declaration put in place the entire basis for a
common agreement on the part of humanity to unite under
the banner of a holy war against the submarine.

The crew of the submarine now began to put their ideas
into practice from their position at the bottom of the Pacific.

113

On the economic level, they began to abolish the giant corpo¬
rations - whether based on private capital or on state capital¬
ism - and to replace them by competing small collective
enterprises. At the same time, they abolished national frontiers
and founded something called the ‘natural common market’.
By means of credit regulations (as banking was nationalized -
i.e. made dependent upon the submarine), they attempted to
turn economic activity in industry and agriculture over to
wide-scale automation and thereby reduce working hours to a
minimum. In this way, the crew of the submarine thought that
they could turn every human being into a capitalist, a share¬
holder in factories where machines laboured. It has taken
centuries for humanity to recover from the resulting economic
chaos.

In the field of biology, the crew of the submarine tried to
purify humanity by means of eugenics. I will not go into the
innumerable tragedies brought about by the attempt to orga¬
nize love on a rational basis. The automatic mixing of races
into one human race was in no way promoted by this attempt;
instead, though this was the intention, it was if anything
impeded.

Psychology employed in the service of the submarine - i.e.
propaganda carried by radio and the press intended to condi¬
tion people to happiness - did not meet with the success
expected of it. This may have to do with the still rather inade¬
quate understanding of the psyche at the time, but also with
the resistance shown by every single citizen to the propaganda
put out by the submarine.

The attempts that were equally unsuccessful in the field of
the arts, sciences and education - particularly in the field
of education for belief - need only be mentioned in passing;
they must be left to future investigations more substantial in
scale.

What was to blame for the submarine’s failure to dominate
the world? It was reality that failed it, the very same reality

114

from which the twentieth century had distanced itself and no
longer believed in. At the start of my observations, I attempted
to prove that the twentieth-century human being was living in
a dream world in which a walking-stick was an electromag¬
netic field or a cultural production or a manufactured object
or a sexual symbol or a thing giving evidence of existence,
living in a world in which it could in fact be anything except a
walking-stick. All that the seventeen people in the submarine
were doing was attempting to dream the dream to its conclu¬
sion. That is where the dream exploded and humanity woke
up to reality; to put it rather irreverently, they recognized the
godhead once more in the walking-stick. This awakening had
an elemental force the likes of which had not been seen since
the awakening to reality that took place in the third century
ad. Everything that smacked of Modernity (i.e. of the
Enlightenment), abstraction and logic were obliterated from
the face of the earth, and the submarine was to be the first
victim of this catharsis.

In future, let us try and analyze the consequences of this
revolution of belief. So far, I have limited my account to the
submarine, and I do not wish to end without emphasizing
once more the tragic greatness of these human beings who
ended up at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Seventeen men
and women condemned themselves to the deep to save
humanity from certain death. They were, and this goes with¬
out saying, still imbued with the prejudices and ideas of their
age, and it equally goes without saying that they caused an
immense amount of trouble. We, the children of a later and -
we think - more enlightened age find it easy to condemn
them, to make fun of them even. But they were at the same
time the heralds of a new era. They represent the first attempt
by humanity since the Middle Ages to combine belief and
knowledge and art. The fact that this attempt failed because it
was dominated by knowledge — that is by science - and not by
belief, as in the case of the Gothic cathedrals, does not make

115

these people any less important; in fact it makes them more so.
With this observation, let us leave the short-lived domination
of the world by the submarine, that unsuccessful and, for that
very reason, successful cathedral of knowledge.

Wheels

One of the most lasting consequences of Nazism is the way in
which the swastika has been turned into a kitsch object. This is
no small achievement given how deeply embedded the sign is
in the human consciousness. So deeply embedded that the
Atlantic is shallow in comparison: The swastika looks approxi¬
mately the same in the cases of the Celts and of the Aztecs.

This essay will attempt to reflect upon this sign, but first a note
on methodology is called for.

One can look at things in at least two ways: by observing
and by reading. If one observes things, one sees them as
phenomena. In the case of the swastika, for example, one sees
two crossing bars and one sees the ends of those bars bent at
right angles. If one reads things, one presupposes that they
mean something and attempts to decipher this meaning. (As
long as one saw the world as a book, a natura libellum, and as
long as one attempted to decipher it, a science without presup¬
positions was impossible. And since one has observed the
world, instead of reading it, it has become meaningless.) If one
now approaches the swastika by reading it, then one sees four
spokes radiating from a hub that turn in the direction of the
right angles, and the right angles begin to describe the circum¬
ference of a circle. From the point of view of reading, the sign
expresses itself by saying: I am the wheel of the sun, and I am
radiating.

At this point, the motivation for this essay must be admit¬
ted: If one observes the post-industrial situation, one is
impressed by the slow but irreversible disappearance of wheels.
They no longer tick away inside electronic equipment. Anyone
wanting to progress no longer goes on wheels but on wings,
and once biotechnology has overtaken mechanics, then
machines will no longer have wheels but fingers, legs and
sexual organs. Perhaps the wheel is just about to become a

117

circle and thus one among many equal curves. Before such a
decadence of the wheel takes over, it seems advisable even at
this late stage (and despite the trivialisation) to relate the deep
incomprehensibility of the wheel to the image of the wheel of
the sun.

The image points the way from the sign towards the signi¬
fied, from the swastika towards the sun. It is a glowing disc,
and it circles round the earth. In fact, it is only the upper semi¬
circle, that between rising and setting, that is visible; the lower
one remains a dark secret. This eternal turning in a circle, eter¬
nally repeated in all its phases, is totally anti-organic. In the
realm of the living, there are no wheels, and the only things
that roll are stones and felled tree-trunks. And life is a process:
It describes a line from birth to death, it is a becoming in order
to pass away. But the wheel of the sun also contradicts death,
as well as life: It mysteriously bends its setting back into its
rising. The wheel of the sun overcomes life and death, and the
whole world is visible under this wheel, because it is this wheel
that makes it appear in the first place. And if one looks at it
this way, it has the following appearance:

It is a scene in which people and things relate to one
another - i.e. change their positions in relation to one another.
The wheel of the sun, the circle of time, moves each and every
thing back into its allotted position. Every movement is a
crime committed by people and things against one another
and against the eternal order of the circle, and time goes round
in a circle in order to atone for these crimes and return people
and things to the position allotted to them. Hence there is no
essential difference between people and things; both are
animated by the desire to sow disorder, and both are judged by
time and with time for their wrong-doing. Everything in the
world is animated, since it moves, and it must have a motiva¬
tion in order to move. And time is both judge and executioner;
it goes in a circle round the world, puts everything right and
makes everything part of a wheel. In this atmosphere of crime

118

and punishment and eternal recurrence - in other words,
under the sign of the wheel of the sun - human beings have
lived out most of the period of grace granted to their existence
on earth.

There have always been human beings who have attempted
to rebel against the circling wheel of fate. All they have
achieved has been to provoke fate even more. Precisely because
Oedipus did not want to sleep with his mother, for that very
reason he did so and had to tear out his eyes. This the Greeks
called ‘heroism’. The Pre-Socratics wanted to overtake the
wheel on the outside - via the transcendent. They thought
that, in order to be able to turn, the wheel must have a motiva¬
tion, a mover. Without that which Aristotle worked out in his
day in the shape of an Unmoved Mover behind time, this - in
itself unmotivated - motivation, one cannot imagine the
Western concept of God.

Long before the Pre-Socratics, however, there is evidence in
Mesopotamia of a kind of heroism of quite a different type.
Try and put yourself in the shoes of a Sumerian priest. There
he was sitting on his tell attempting to decipher the circling
world of wheels. He saw birth, death and rebirth; he saw crime
and punishment; he saw night and day, summer and winter,
war and peace, fat years and lean years; and he saw all these
phases meshing with one another in a cyclical fashion. From
these cycles and epicycles, the priest could read off the future,
by means astrology for example, not to prevent them happen¬
ing but to prophesy their happening. And suddenly, he had the
incredible idea of building a wheel that would turn in the
opposite direction to the wheel of fate. A wheel that, if placed
in the Euphrates, would turn the waters round so that they
would not flow into the sea but into channels. This is, seen
from our point of view, a technological idea. But at that time
and in that place, it was an incomprehensible breakthrough.
The invention of the wheel broke through the magic circle of
prehistory; it broke the power of fate. It broke its way into a

119

new form of time: history. If anything does, the invention of
the water-wheel deserves to be called a ‘catastrophe’.

Before getting carried away with the philosophy of it, we
should not be prevented from following up the later develop¬
ment of the wheel. In other words, looking at that cart pulled
by a donkey taking corn to the mill. This is a totally different
scene from that of the heroic inventive priest. It comes in the
middle of history and is closer to the Industrial Revolution
than to Myth. For the concept of the vehicle wheel - i.e. the
cartwheel - is entirely due to historical consciousness and
could only arise where history is a lived experience. For
instance:

Imagine taking the water-wheel out of its usual situation
and giving it impetus. It would have to roll across an infinitely
extended space for an infinitely long period of time, and this is
after all precisely what we call ‘history’: an infinitely long, infi¬
nitely extended rolling motion. It turns out, however, that this
is not the case; a motor is needed, the donkey that has to give
the wheel continually renewed impetus to keep it rolling. How
can we explain the fact that a vehicle wheel must be a ‘motor¬
cycle’ and cannot be an ‘automobile’, cannot be a perpetuum
mobile, cannot be something eternally motivated? The idea of
the vehicle wheel on its own cannot explain this. The wheel is a
circle, so it is always in contact with its orbit by means of a
single point. As a point is without dimension, is Nothing, the
wheel is never in contact with the reality it is rolling over and
therefore should in no way be influenced by it. Nevertheless, it
does in fact rub up against the treacherous repulsion of the
world, and donkeys have to pull it in order to keep it rolling.

Consider how far away we have come, in discussing the
problem of the vehicle wheel, from the mythical world of the
wheel of the sun. And the basic difference between the world
of Myth and ours is this: In the world of Myth, there can be no
unmotivated movement. If something moves in it, this is
because it has a motivation - i.e. because it is animated by a

120

motivation. In our world, on the other hand, movement calls
for further explanation. Our world is inert, or - to put it more
elegantly - the law of inertia explains all movement and all
rest. Of course, there are, also in our world, movements that
appear to be motivated. Our own, for example. Such abnormal
movements are characteristic of living beings. The eighteenth
century cherished a hope of explaining away the motivations
of living beings as legends and of explaining living beings in
terms of complex machines. This hope has never materialized,
and yet the world of Myth is an animated world - living beings
are all within it and are wheeled along by fate - while ours is
an inert, inanimate world, even if living beings occur within it,
and this inert world rolls on and on without motivation.

So how come vehicle wheels are always catching? Because a
point is only Nothing in theory and because a wheel is only a
circle in theory. In practice, a point is always elongated, and a
circle is always slightly irregular. According to the law of iner¬
tia, wheels should in theory roll forever to infinity, but in prac¬
tice they come up against friction, which puts a brake on them.
However, this does not mean that we should abandon theory
when building vehicle wheels. On the contrary, it means that
we must, at the same time, build a theory of friction into the
theory of inertia. With the cart pulled by the donkey, we are
caught right in the middle of a contradiction between theory
and observation, between theory and experiment - i.e.
between thinking scientifically and thinking technologically.

The world has become inert and inanimate and at the same
time treacherous and repulsive since, by the invention first of
the water-wheel and then of the vehicle wheel, we have broken
through the fateful wheel of the eternal recurrence of the
same. But we can overcome the repulsive treachery of the
inanimate world by means of the dialectic between theory and
experiment and force it to act as a basis for a limitlessly rolling
progress. The wheel of progress cannot move endlessly
forward automatically because it is forced over and over again

121

to overcome the blind, unmotivated resistances of an inani¬
mate world - e.g. the earth’s attraction and the unevennesses
of the surface. The wheel of progress needs a motor, and we
ourselves are this motor, our own will. Hence the slogan of the
triumphant Industrial Revolution: ‘If your strong arm it
should will, all the wheels must stand still’ or: ‘We are the
drivers of all the wheels, the living God of a dead universe.’

Unfortunately, not for long. It has recently turned out to be
the case that the repulsive frictions that obstruct the wheel of
progress can in fact be overcome and that progress then starts
to roll automatically. It becomes an automobile. Then any
further driving of the wheel on the part of humanity becomes
superfluous. Progress begins to go into a skid like that caused
when there is black ice. And the danger arises that, in the face
of such progress without friction, humanity is run over
precisely when it attempts to apply the brake. A situation
which in a roundabout way reminds one of the eyes of
Oedipus rebelling against the fateful wheel and his having to
tear them out of his own head. This perhaps explains the
attempt nowadays to turn off the wheels and jump across from
the world of vehicle wheels into another world that is still to be
experienced. This essay has been an attempt to look backwards
one more time before jumping out of the automobile rolling
along without friction, so as to catch sight one more time of
the radiant secret behind the skidding wheels, that radiant
secret by which this whole story was originally set in motion.

122

Biographical Note

1920 Vilem Flusser is born in Prague on 12 May. He grows up
in a family of Jewish intellectuals; his father, Gustav Flusser, is
a Professor of Mathematics at Charles University.

1931 Attends the Smichovo Gymnasium in Prague.

1939 Begins studying philosophy at Charles University in
Prague.

1940 Escapes to London with Edith Barth.

End of 1940 Both emigrate to Brazil.

1941 Marries Edith Barth in Rio de Janeiro.

1950-61 Works in industry. Directs a transformer factory in
Sao Paulo. At the same time, continues studies in philosophy -
‘i.e. one did business in the daytime and philosophy at night’.

1957 First publications on questions of linguistic philosophy
in Suplemento Literario do Estado de Sao Paulo.

1959 Appointed Lecturer in the Philosophy of Science at
University of Sao Paulo.

from i960 Permanent member of staff of Suplemento Literario
do Estado de Sao Paulo. Publishes first contributions to Revista
Brasileira de Filosofia, journal of Brazilian Philosophical
Institute, Sao Paulo.

from 1961 Regular publications in a number of Brazilian jour¬
nals, such as Cultura Brasileira. Folha de Sao Paulo, one of the
country’s biggest daily newspapers, sets up a column, ‘Posta
Zero’.

1962 Member of Brazilian Philosophical Institute,

Sao Paulo.

123

1963 Appointed to Chair of the Philosophy of
Communication at University of Communication and the
Human Sciences (FAAP) in Sao Paulo. Member of Committee
of Fundagao Bienal das Artes. First book is published: Lingua e
Realidade (Sao Paulo: Herder).

1964 Assistant editor of Revista Brasileira de Filosofia.

1965 Lectures on linguistic philosophy at Faculty of
Humanities of Technological Institute of Aeronautics, Sao
Paulo. Publishes A Histdria do Diabo (Sao Paulo: Martins).

from 1966 Regular contributor to Frankfurter Allgemeine
Zeitung.

1966 Publishes Filosofia da Lingages (Campos de Jordao: ITA)
and Da Religiosidade (Sao Paulo: Commissao Estadual de
Cultura).

1966-67 Emissary of Brazilian Foreign Ministry for cultural
co-operation with North America and Europe.

from 1967 Guest-lectures at North American and European
universities. Participates in international congresses. Publishes
in European and North American journals, including
Artitudes (Paris), Communication et langages (Paris), Main
Currents (New York) and Merkur (Munich).

1972 Due to conflict with the military government, the
Flussers move to Europe, settling in Merano. Flusser works on
a philosophical autobiography, Zeugenschaft aus der
Bodenlosigkeit (Testimony of Rootlessness), part of which is
published in 1992 by Bollmann (Diisseldorf and Bensheim)
under the title Bodenlos (Rootless). Publishes La Force du
quotidien (Paris: Mame).

1973 Moves to Robion in the south of France. Works on a
phenomenology of human gestures.

124

1974 Publishes Le Monde codifie (Paris: Institut de
l’Environnement).

1977 Publishes L’Art sociologique et la video a travers la
demarche de Fred Forest (Paris: Collection 10/18).

1979 Publishes Naturakmente (Sao Paulo: Duas Cidades).

1981 Publishes Pos-histdria (Sao Paulo: Duas Cidades). First
book-length publication in German, Fur eine Philosophic der
Fotografie (Gottingen: European Photography) (since trans¬
lated into eight languages).

1985 Publishes Ins Universum der technischen Bilder
(Gottingen: European Photography) and Vampyroteuthis
infernalis (together with Louis Bee) (Gottingen: Immatrix
Publications/European Photography). Die Schrift: Hat
Schreiben Zukunft? is published simultaneously in book
form and on disk by Immatrix Publications/European
Photography.

from 1985 Lectures frequently in Western Europe, particularly
in Federal Republic of Germany. Publishes articles, essays and
commentaries in magazines and newspapers, including
Artforum (New York), Leonardo (Berkeley), Spuren
(Hamburg), kultuRRevolution (Essen), Design Report
(Frankfurt am Main), Kunstforum International
(Ruppichteroth), Arch+ (Aachen).

1986 Publishes Krise derLinearitdt (Berne: Benteli).

1989 Publishes Angenommen: Eine Szenenfolge (Gottingen:
Immatrix Publications/European Photography).

1990 Publishes Nachgeschichten (Diisseldorf and Bensheim:
Bollmann).

1991 Publishes Gesten: Versuch einer Phdnomenologie
(Diisseldorf and Bensheim: Bollmann).

125

Vilem Flusser dies on 27 November in a road accident near
Prague, shortly after visiting the city of his birth for the first
time in more than 50 years.

126

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